The Warring States (The Wave Trilogy) (51 page)

The dusty plain before them was littered with hundreds of bodies, and the carrion birds were already busy.

‘A battle?’ Sofia said.

‘Hardly – a raid, or rather the end of one at least.’

Sofia didn’t need to ask who was winning; that was obvious. Those Sicarii who were not going down fighting were scattering over the hills in every direction. Most were dressed like Arik, in robes of flowing black, but some wore ragged loincloths and turbans with long, trailing tails.

Sofia watched in fascination. The Sicarii fought like Arik, leaping and twirling, fleet-footed as the wind. Their opponents, fighting under a banner with a blue-handed icon, were equally skilful, but different; they used some variant of Water Style. It
was not skill, however, but sheer numbers that had decided the day for the Queen’s knights. They were like an army of ghosts: each had a crude death’s head painted on his helmet mask. Underneath their long white cloaks, the knights wore green surcoats emblazoned with a stylised Herod’s sword. The surcoat covered reddened chainmail, that didn’t appear to slow them at all. They were as deft as fencers with their light axes in close combat, and they threw with amazing accuracy. Half were fighting the last Sicarii hand-to-hand; the other half were mounted on white chargers and held in tight formation. Occasionally the one who looked to be in charge would bark an order, and a few knights would break away and set off to chase down straggling Sicarii.

As the last one dropped, the leader raised his banner and shouted, ‘Queen Catrina!’

The knights took up the cry lustily, brandishing their axes.

‘Let’s go,’ Arik said.
‘Hut!’

Sofia was a little surprised not to be challenged as they aproached; the knights obviously recognised Arik. As she looked around for Levi, scanning the corpses as well as the living, she was a little unnerved when the knights kept their cumbersome masks down; normally the first thing a knight did after battle was to throw off his helmet, gasping for air.

Arik led her through the ranks and called, ‘Fulk!’

The two knights standing either side of the kneeling Sicarii looked round together but their reactions were very different: the one holding the large axe delightedly exclaimed, ‘Arik!’ but the other knight, the one holding the prisoner, barked, ‘You’re addressing the Grand Master, Slave!’

‘Seneschal!’ the Grand Master said chidingly, ‘our friend deserves a better welcome. You
will
apologise,’ His voice was rasping, but young, and Sofia noticed that he did not have to raise it to get attention.

‘Quite all right,’ said Arik evenly. ‘Bad-natured camels bite, they cannot help it.’

When the Seneschal glared at Arik, Sofia saw that he had only one eye, and that was pale as milk. He snorted but did not retort. ‘Fine then,’ the Grand Master said after a moment, ‘one moment, if you please.’

The arms of the Sicarii kneeling before him were bound and his face gleamed with sweat and blood, but his taunting smile was manic. ‘Enjoy this day, Akkan dog. Your days as masters of this land are at an end. The Old Man has woken from his slumber and returned from the mountains. The first to feel the sharpness of his knife will be the traitors’ – here he glanced at Arik before turning back – ‘then he will unite the tribes and push you and your whore of a queen into the sea.’

‘If it happens, you will not see it,’ the Grand Master said calmly and nodded to the Seneschal, who jabbed the prisoner’s side with the point of a dagger. The man stiffened, and with one blow the Grand Master took his head off. He bowed to the corpse, then handed his axe to the Seneschal. ‘See to the rest, Basilius.’

The Grand Master turned to Arik and Sofia. ‘Glad to see you yet amongst the living, Arik.’

The two men clasped arms in a warrior grip. ‘How did you find them?’ Arik asked.

‘I sent a small forward party with a long-enough carriage train. Greed drew them to it.’ Sofia noticed he did not describe the successful ruse with glee or knightly braggadocio.

Arik shook his head. ‘They forgot all caution? Sicarii indeed! Truly they are dogs and sons of dogs.’

‘It was nothing wonderful; you saw how many escaped. But where were you? You were long delayed. Dhib’s been pining for you.’

Sofia was following their exchange. ‘Who’s Dhib?’

The men exchanged looks. ‘A falcon, my lady.’ Fulk’s voice betrayed amusement.

‘Oh,’ Sofia said lamely, puzzled by her proprietary feelings for an infidel.

Arik, for his part, looked equally baffled. Then he recovered his composure. ‘Allow me to introduce the Contessa Scaligeri of Etruria. Contessa, this is Fulk, Grand Master of the Lazars. The Contessa came across the water just to see Queen Catrina.’

‘Consider me at your service, Contessa. I shall be honoured to escort you to Akka.’ He gave a courtly bow, then turned back to Arik and said seriously, ‘Look here, what’s all this Old Man business?’ He pointed at the decapitated bandit. ‘He wasn’t the only one raving about it.’

‘Don’t panic. The Old Man’s return has been imminent for decades.’

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Sofia said, ‘but did you find another like me, a Frank? A man? Tall, thin?’

‘Impossibly handsome?’ said a familiar voice.

‘Levi? Oh! I thought I’d lost you too!’

‘No such luck.’ He limped towards her, wan and much the worse for wear – but alive! Sofia screamed in delight,
‘Grazie Madonna!’
and they embraced, much to the embarrassment of both Arik and Fulk.

They left the heads piled behind them. Levi slouched weakly in the saddle as they rode for Akka, and Sofia knew she was in not much better state. Fulk seemed a decent sort but the Lazars were an army unlike any she had ever seen. If Arik had not been with them she would have feared for their safety. They were solemn and silent, and they rode their white horses in close formation across the plain, making a collective thunder that kept bandits lurking in the hills under cover. Their fluttering cloaks glowed eerily, like the wings of moths under the
rising moon, which was high in the night sky by the time the white walls of Akka rose out of the sands. The chill night air carried the scent of the sea that lay beyond the city. A single figure, a woman, stood on the walls, watching as they approached. She raised a hand and, as one, the Lazars saluted.

As soon as they entered the city, Arik disappeared. Fulk led Sofia and Levi up to the wall to meet the queen.

‘Contessa, we are privileged to welcome you to Akka.’

Sofia had grown up in the Bardini workshop; she knew how to size up a man. With women, the dance was more subtle, and she usually found herself confused, clumsy and awkward. It felt natural, however, to evaluate Queen Catrina as she would a bandieratoro, and the queen – whatever words of welcome she said, however warm her smile – was doing likewise. She looked as if she could take a punch, and throw one too. She was tall as a man, wide-shouldered, thick-necked, wide-hipped and magnificently bosomed. Sofia’s first impression was that there was
more
of her, that she was constructed of materials more robust than mere skin and bone and muscle. Her voluptuous curves were enmeshed in a gown that glistened like the skin of a reptile, made of small, dark jewels bound together like chainmail: a lapidary armour of a thousand unblinking eyes.

‘In times past the Scaligeri and Guiscards were great allies,’ the queen said. Under her deep voice was the great lazy certainty of a king. ‘We shall be great friends. You must have suffered terribly. The Sands are a wicked place, fit for Ebionites and Jinn, but not human beings. Tonight you shall sleep in a comfortable bed.’

‘I’m most grateful,’ Sofia said, feelingly.

The queen’s ladies dressed in a strange blend of antique Etrurian designs and flowing eastern sensuousness, acres of luxurious materials that concealed as much as they suggested,
at once conservative and decadent. Even if she had not just arrived from the desert, Sofia knew she would have felt a ragged beggar beside them.

‘Akka has no fear of surprise attacks?’ said Levi.

‘None,’ said the queen. ‘Like a gerbil my city sleeps with one eye open. My Lazars man her walls so that all within may dream golden dreams without fear.’

On the north side of the bridge, the swordsman stood, head tilted meditatively, before the maimed lion. Everyone diverted their gaze so as not to see the Concordian or the terrible object of his study. No good could come of either. Yuri was a good man, but the Podesta of Rasenna needed cunning more than virtue. What Doc Bardini would have done, the old men said, was to publicly blame some drunken sot for this crime so that the real culprit would think himself free of suspicion. Afterwards, the Doc would have administered justice privately.

A soft voice whispered in Geta’s ear, ‘An art lover as well as a traitor?’ He spun, and captured Maddalena’s hand before she could retreat.

‘The first charge is just, but you’ll find no one more loyal than I.’

‘The First Apprentice wouldn’t agree.’

‘That shows the quality of my patriotism.’ Geta raised his head high. ‘The engineers have brought Concord’s name into disrepute with impious weapons that render knightly virtue irrelevant.’

Although Maddalena well knew that the late Captain Giovanni had those very virtues, she did not contradict Geta but listened to him with a sceptically arched brow.

‘Perhaps it’s no longer politic to say it, but nature has a hierarchy. Discard it, and you invite anarchy.’ He gestured at the subject of his scrutiny as evidence. ‘A serf cannot match a knight’s courage, but give that serf an arquebus and a handful
of shot and courage is irrelevant. And what knight – or gunner, for that matter – can stand against a Wave that levels all? In my youth, I fought for glory in the legions until I realised there was no glory in serving slaves.’ Geta slowly pulled her closer and she allowed him. ‘But I needn’t tell you this, Signorina Bombelli. Your breeding speaks for itself.’

Maddalena laughed. ‘Then you’ve wax in your ears. My father’s a merchant. Bombelli blood’s common as any of these peddlers.’ She gestured at the noisy hawkers on the bridge.

‘You shock me.’ This was a lie. Fabbro’s cajoling manner obviously came from the streets, and Geta had studied in Rasenna; he knew perfectly well which families had been entitled to sit in the old Signoria. He kissed her hand. ‘If it’s true, I earnestly hope you marry
up
. Strange—’ He licked his lips. ‘You don’t
taste
common.’

Maddalena snatched her hand back and playfully slapped him. ‘You impertinent cad. I prefer my men strong and silent.’

‘As you like – it was you, however, who disturbed my ruminations.’ He clicked his heels and spun back to the defiled statue. It had been cleanly decapitated in the night. Most of the mane had come away with its head, leaving its torso a great open cavity. Around the wound, precious viscera, ribbons of gold leaf, trembled in the wind.

‘And just what are you ruminating upon?’

‘Guilt,’ he said. ‘Your father believes that poor Kitty here was desecrated by bandieratori.’

‘My father thinks with his heart. It’s what makes him a good peddler – he could persuade even you that all you need to set off your uniform is a pretty corset. But he doesn’t understand that most men are not like him. He tolerated years of condescension from the Families who took loans from him because he knew that one day he’d be looking down on them.’

‘Smart.’ Geta knew a thing or two about money-lenders.

‘Most men value pride over bread.’

‘If you’re hinting at something, I beg you, be plain. I have the most ghastly hangover this morning.’

Maddalena walked to the lion, gesturing for Geta to follow her. ‘This wasn’t an insult directed at the Signoria. See how neatly it’s been severed? It’s downright artistic.’

She turned until she was looking in the same direction as the lion, across the piazza at Palazzo Bombelli. ‘This was an insult from someone my father blunderingly offended. Somewhere there’s a trail to whoever did it; you just have to find it.’

Frowning, Geta examined the cut. It was indeed a neat job. Maddalena was halfway across the piazza when he turned back. He was admiring her suggestively undulating carriage when she looked over her shoulder and pointed skywards. He looked up and saw the grey smoke soiling the sky, and followed it to its source: Tartarus.