Unholy War (39 page)

Ramon warily watched them approaching, his eyes constantly scanning them for signs of threat while Harmon and Vidran studied the walls. He got the impression that the vizier was sick with fear, but the caliph and his woman looked composed, almost smugly at ease.

Which one’s the mage?
Ramon wondered. He glanced at Storn. ‘Tell them that the bearers can come no further.’

Storn relayed the message, and to his relief the palanquin was gently lowered and the caliph rose to his feet. He was a big, lean man with dark, tanned skin and a face that might have been chiselled from granite. His head was shaven, apart from a black topknot, and he had an almost barbarous vitality to him, not at all what Ramon was expecting of the ruler of a small town.

The woman with him cast back the hood of her bekira-shroud, revealing a stunning face, wide-mouthed and red-lipped, with big bewitching eyes and a sultry, almost mocking expression on her face. Her copper hair rippled in the faint breeze. She didn’t look right either: all the Antiopian women Ramon had seen were meek and shrouded things, seldom seen in public. He began to feel his apprehension rise.

The third man kept his hood up, and just the hint of a vulturine nose distinguished him. Ramon stared at them, his unease turning to alarm. Their skin was surprising: none of them had the the natural darkness of an Easterner but the burnished hue of a tanned Yurosian. But it was their auras that made him catch his breath: every one of the three was all oily film and roiling tentacles.

These people weren’t just magi: they were Souldrinkers.
The enemy’s beaten us here.

The stone-faced man spoke first. ‘I am Yorj Arkanus, Leader of the Brethren. This is my wife, Hecatta, and my colleague, Zsdryk.’ He indicated the hooded man with the hatchet-nose, then waved a loose hand towards the vizier. ‘And … whoever he is.’

The vizier cringed. His eyes met Ramon’s, pleading for help so plainly he could have been shrieking it from the rooftops. His clothing was absolutely sodden with sweat, with huge wet stains under his armpits, around his belly and down his back as well: not too much sun, but too much fear.

So this parley was a sham, a delaying tactic to keep them busy while Salim’s army came up behind them. It was a traditional hammer-and-anvil scenario – and they were caught in the middle. And here they had three gnosis-users against just him.

Ramon gave a half-bow, as if all if this were totally expected, trying to appear unflappably cool, though his heart was thudding painfully hard. He made his own introductions, then turned to the vizier. ‘I trust the real caliph and calipha are well?’

‘He and his wife are completely irrelevant,’ Arkanus interjected. ‘This whole emirate will soon belong to me.’ He chuckled. ‘We’ve been watching you from afar, magus – I arrived in Ardijah a week ago. The caliph and his family are my prisoners.’ He sneered. ‘Perhaps you’d like to join them and sit out the coming battle?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘I am as strong as one of your pure-bloods,’ Arkanus boasted, ‘and so is my wife and so is Zsdryk. I have thirty Fire-magi with me and a dozen Earth-magi, all of our Brethren. A thirty-strong pack of animagi accompany the army – more than enough to deal with you and yours.’

Ramon filed the numbers away.
Sol et Lune, we are in trouble
. ‘Is there a point to this parley?’ he asked calmly.

‘You asked for it,’ Arkanus growled. ‘I believe there was a question of gold?’

‘That seems irrelevant now.’

Arkanus smirked. ‘It does rather, seeing as we’ll be taking it off you anyway.’

‘Then I think we are finished.’

‘Perhaps we will simply kill you, right here, to send a message to your commander?’ Arkanus suggested mildly.

‘Your honour is justly renowned,’ Ramon replied sarcastically, while his pulse throbbed.

‘Do not speak to me of honour, mage,’ he spat. ‘In the name of your god you have murdered and tortured my kindred for centuries. There has been no tool you have not employed to entrap and destroy us.’ Arkanus stalked towards him, tapped him on the chest. ‘But I will allow you to return to your commander. I wish him to know who awaits him in Ardijah. Get you gone, and pray for an easy death tomorrow.’

The hooded man, Zsdryk, snarled something in a guttural voice; the intonations were Sydian. His mouth was full of long yellowed teeth, like an old wolf.

Harmon and Vidran took an involuntary step back; Storn took three.

Ramon motioned to them to back away whil he kept his eyes locked on the three Dokken. Arkanus watched him every step of the way, while Hecatta whispered in his ear and Zsdryk just stared. The vizier looked like his knees were wobbling so hard beneath his robes that standing was almost beyond him.

Ramon murmured a command and they turned and walked away, all the while their backs tingling in fear of a ballista shot or arrow from the wall.

Now what do we do?

Vidran put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Sir?’ His voice was calm as his eyes.

His hand steadied Ramon somehow. ‘Thank you, Vidran.’

‘What’s the plan, sir?’

*

Seth Korion waited on the hill as Ramon Sensini climbed towards him. He’d never seen the little Silacian look so angry. ‘What happened? Can we enter?’

‘The Dokken are already here. The parley was a sham.’

The magi all groaned aloud.

‘I told you it was stupid,’ Renn Bondeau said.

Ramon glared at the Pallacian until Jelaska put a restraining hand on his shoulder and whispered something in his ear.

Seth felt like breaking down. They had fled across the desert, exhausting themselves to get here, and all the time they had just been running into the enemy’s arms. ‘What … what do we do?’ he asked, trying to keep his voice firm. ‘Move on?’

Ramon looked at him contemptuously. ‘Well,
General
, we’ve almost run out of stores and I rather suspect that if we travel a few miles further west, we may well run into another army.’ The Silacian ran his fingers through his hair. It looked like he was thinking furiously. ‘No,’ he said distractedly, ‘we need to think this through.’

Renn Bondeau slapped his thigh impatiently. ‘Think, think! Thinking gets us nowhere! We must attack, now!’

‘We should emblazon that on your gravestone,’ Jelaska drawled.

Sigurd Vaas stepped in front of Bondeau and tapped his breastplate. ‘You will be silent now.’

Bondeau straightened and for a moment it looked like he was about to start a brawl. But Vaas had a hard reputation … They settled for glaring at each other until one of Bondeau’s Brevian friends pulled him away.

Seth watched helplessly, wishing he could come up with a plan, but his brain refused to suggest anything. The Silacian huddled with his confederates, Jelaska, Vaas, Baltus and Kippenegger, as if only their opinions mattered. It was humiliating, having to wait like this, but he could think of nothing useful to contribute.

Finally Ramon Sensini turned back to the group. He looked like he’d recovered a little of his usual obnoxious spirit – his grin wasn’t as forced this time. ‘Listen, thanks to their boasting leader, we know that there are forty Souldrinkers inside Ardijah – but the soldiers are all Khotri, and I don’t think they’re happy. Remember, these are Dokken:
everyone
hates them, even here. What if that Khotri army on the far side aren’t here to block us, but to keep the Souldrinkers penned inside?’

Bondeau went to say something, then shut his mouth when Vaas met his eye.

Ramon pointed at the sun. ‘It’s almost midday. I think we do need to attack, but not in the way we’re expected to.’ He jabbed a finger at the Windmaster. ‘Ready your skiff to take Storn and me across the river: I want to talk to the Khotri on the far side. We’ll need to circle out of sight so Arkanus doesn’t work out what we’re up to. Jelaska, these Dokken are all Thaumaturges and animagi. Sorcery is their weakness, and you’re our best. You need to prepare something to support our assault. Bondeau, take all our cavalry and go find some enemy to kill on our back trail. We need you to slow Salim down and buy us time – but you need to get out alive.’ He looked about the group. ‘Who’s our best sylvanic mage?’

Wilbrecht, one of Bondeau’s Brevian friends, put up a hand.

‘How many wagons do you think you can convert into boats in the space of an afternoon?’

Wilbrecht blinked. ‘To seal the timbers so that they are water-tight? That is simple, at least to hold for a short time. But they will barely be able to be steered.’

‘We have Water-mages for that,’ Ramon replied. ‘Get onto it.’ He looked at Sigurd. ‘There are three pure-blood equivalents among the Dokken, but they don’t use periapts and I’m guessing they don’t have anything like our Arcanum-style training. Can we take them down?’

‘If we know their weaknesses.’

‘You’ve heard them. We’ll need to use Sorcery and Theurgy, attack their minds.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Anyone else got something to contribute?’ He looked at Bondeau as if expecting an objection.

‘I’m fine with my role,’ the Pallacian muttered. ‘At last, some actual fighting.’

‘Who will lead the frontal attack?’ Kip asked.

‘I will,’ Seth replied quickly, firmly, though he felt like he’d just declared an intention to slit his own wrists.

Everyone looked at him sceptically.

‘It’s my duty,’ he said firmly, as his face drained of colour.

18

The Death of Emperor Magnus

Elena Anborn slipped into the opium den, anonymous beneath a bekira-shroud. The town was called Mentazi, near the city of Riban, the Aranio family’s stronghold. It had taken her three nights to fly there. Kazim had taken the skiff off on another errand elsewhere, which meant she had no way to get out fast, but the Dorobon presence here was weak, and she was pretty sure Gurvon was still hunting her along the Hytel Road, not here.

The rich, smoky haze of the den was barely filtered by the gauze over her face. Only her hands and the bridge of her nose were uncovered, but she was sunburned brown enough that it would take a discerning eye to pick her out from a similarly attired Jhafi woman. Any woman in here would be taken for a whore, but most of the hashish addicts were too far gone for lust, so she passed untroubled. Elena had never been tempted, not even in her lowest moments, to use the drug: opium and hashish were for fools or the hopeless, and she’d never had a moment in which hope did not offer solace far greater than the poppy-milk.

Though most lower-class Jhafi condemned the drug-traders, too many of the wealthy – both Rimoni and Jhafi – were ensnared by the stuff. As well as the measure of protection given by wealthy users, the trade was far too lucrative to stamp out, so those who needed the drug had no problem finding a den in most larger towns and cities. The rooms here were dimly lit, and figures sprawled on divans, either puffing from hookahs or bone pipes, or already comatose. They were all men, though some had naked Jhafi girls draped over them.

She found the man she sought in a room upstairs. The window had been flung wide and the fresh air was a welcome relief. He rose and bowed formally, smiling politely though his eyes were wary. ‘Sal’Ahm, Elena.’

‘Sal’Ahm, Harshal.’ She unmasked, glancing about her. ‘This is secure?’

‘The Dorobon do not come here.’ Harshal ali Assam kissed her cheeks formally and she returned the gesture, catching a whiff of expensive scent. His shaven skull gleamed in the lamplight as he sat and smoothed his expensive robes. He was the younger brother of the Emir of Forensa, with many ties to the Nesti – but he was much more than a pampered Jhafi princeling. He was the most well-informed man in Javon, in many ways the Jhafi equivalent to Gurvon, except that his loyalty to his people was unswerving and complete – and he was neither a mage nor an assassin.

‘I hate these places,’ she told him. ‘Mind, the taverns in some parts of Yuros are just as bad. We all need our drugs, I suppose.’

Harshal waved an arm. ‘Then I apologise for choosing this venue, but such dens remain the most private of public places. Please, be seated.’

Elena looked about her, using her gnostic senses to detect any listeners, and when she found none she sat opposite Harshal. He lifted the silver-chased flagon from the low table between them and poured the clear fluid, then added iced water, turning the arak cloudy. He made a show of drinking first, to demonstrate that it was safe, and ate a few nuts and a date from the small platter of dried fruits and nuts, for the same reason. They waited in silence until it was clear there was no poison in either.

‘It is sad that it has come to this, my friend,’ she said at last.

‘You must forgive me, Elena, but first we heard the rumour that you had betrayed us to your former lover, and now you are hunting Dorobon magi and the price on your head doubles every week. We have been confused. And you have not made contact until now.’

‘I never betrayed the Nesti.’ She fixed him with a firm stare. ‘The tale is hard to believe, for a non-mage, but I think you are one who will understand it.’ She proceeded to tell him as much as she dared of her capture and possession by Gurvon and his minion, that night almost a year ago, just before the Moontide began. She left out Cera’s part in her capture; she did not wish that story to circulate among the Jhafi, not at this stage, at least.

‘My purpose now is to harry the Dorobon,’ she concluded. ‘I wish to make travel outside Brochena untenable for them, unless they move in force. Ultimately, I would see them thrown out of Javon and the country returned to self-rule.’

Harshal listened in silence. His expression had become strained when she was describing her possession by Rutt Sordell, but she knew that he’d spoken to Lorenzo di Kestria, who had seen Sordell’s scarab first-hand. And his religion included the possibility of daemonic possession too, by spirits they called ‘afreet’.

When she finished, Harshal asked a few probing questions, then fell silent, contemplating her words.

‘Donna Elena, I believe you,’ he said finally. He touched his forehead and then his heart in a flowing gesture. ‘I am not a mage, but I can recognise truth when I hear it. But why would you – a foreigner – care about Javon?’

‘All kinds of reasons,’ she said honestly. ‘I like it here – or at least, I did when Olfuss ruled. I swore to protect the Nesti family, and I meant it. Just before he died, Olfuss offered to buy me from Gurvon’s service, and I intended to accept. I like the warmth here, and I like the people. Also, there’s nowhere else that would have me! And Gurvon Gyle is here and I very much want to see his head on a spike. So it’s a mixture of the personal and the pragmatic.’

He accepted that with a wry smile, then asked, ‘How may we aid you? Do you require sanctuary amongst us? Will you return with me to Forensa? They say the Dorobon will move against us soon.’

‘It’s best I stay in the shadows for now, Harshal. If Gurvon knows where I am, he can contain me. I can do more damage operating independently, for now at least.’

Harshal nodded regretfully. ‘You are undoubtedly right, Donna Elena, but I had to ask. Is it true that you have an ally, a mage of Jhafi blood?’

‘Best I say nothing of that.’

‘Then I ask again: how can we help you?’

‘With information. It’s hard to stay abreast of events while hiding in the wild. Tell me about the Royal Convocation. I’ve heard nothing. Do you have a new king yet?’

‘We do not,’ he replied, sighing heavily. ‘Elena, it was not a good meeting. The Rimoni houses cannot rally behind a single candidate. Each house promotes itself – or doesn’t even attend. And many Jhafi with the requisite blood have withdrawn, claiming that the Nesti soldiers stood by at Fishil Wadi and watched the massacre. The Convocation was a disaster, and no candidate gained the required majority.’ He hung his head. ‘Anyone who opened his mouth was cut down to size, me included, and I do not even have the blood to be a candidate. I despair for Javon.’

It’s worse than I thought … but at least Timori still has value to Gurvon.
‘So they still hope for Timori’s release?’

‘For now.’ Harshal dropped his voice. ‘They also noted that Cera is causing great disruption and division by taking civil cases in her Beggars’ Court. It has divided the clergy, and many speak against her.’

Elena felt a surge of tangled emotions rise in her: unexpected pride in her princessa’s courage and resourcefulness warred with the bitter memory of her betrayal. It was several moments before she trusted herself to speak. ‘Is this Beggars’ Court so divisive?’

Harshal leaned forwards. ‘For the most part she is supporting those who would otherwise be condemned by the clergy – usually women. The clergy feel threatened – they claim she is Gyle’s pawn – and many Godsingers have been arrested for rabble-rousing against her. Gyle has arrested many clergy, which fuels the rumours that the two collude. Brochena is a very dangerous place these days, filled with Rondian settlers and many more soldiers.’

‘Then it is good that the Convocation chose not to elect a new king,’ Elena said slowly, still working through the ramifications of Harshal’s news.

‘Perhaps so,’ he said. ‘Portia Tolidi is pregnant and has been sent to Hytel. She will give birth in a few months. But Cera’s womb remains empty. They say the king loathes her and no longer beds her.’

Elena scratched her nose. ‘All the better,’ she decided. ‘I think that if she fell pregnant, the people would turn against her.’

‘I think that also. Tell me, is it really true that Staria Canestos’ legion are all frocio – what is your Rondian expression? Ah yes,
mooners
?’

‘Most of them – but don’t think that makes them soft, Harshal. They fight like demons.’

Harshal said slowly, ‘We will be wary. Very well: I will report to the Regency Council, such as it is.’ He looked up, then voiced something that had clearly been preying on his mind. ‘Donna Elena, can you tell me what happened that night when Solinde died in the tower?’ Harshal had been a suitor for Solinde’s hand.

‘One day, perhaps, I can tell you,’ she said, ‘but not yet.’
Especially as it wasn’t Solinde anyway.
She sought a more comfortable subject: ‘How do the Nesti feel about Cera now?’

‘They still revere her, Elena. They forgive her marriage, for they see it as a selfless act to protect her brother. All believe that she remains true to her family. Her maid Tarita is an important source of information for us.’ He stroked his goatee. ‘All speak fondly of the days when she sat as Regent with you at her side. Were she to somehow be spirited back to us and you to reappear once again at her side, I believe all would rejoice.’

She could hear the hope in his voice.
Could I ever work with her again? I don’t know
… ‘The queens are very heavily guarded, Harshal. I’m not so keen to die attempting a rescue.’

‘I understand, Elena,’ he said regretfully.

‘Our heads must rule our hearts,’ she told him.

‘That would be sensible.’ After a moment he asked, ‘And how is your heart, Donna Elena? Does your mystery man care for you?’

Elena felt a smile spread across her face, enough of an answer to a sharp man like Harshal. ‘He looks after all my needs.’

‘I am pleased for you, truly. You have a glow to you, Ella. War and love clearly suit you.’

‘That’s a very backhanded compliment!’ They laughed, regarding each other with a certain understanding. In another time and place, Harshal ali Assam might have been closer to her than most. ‘What about you? Isn’t it well past time you married?’

He pulled a face. ‘I’d as soon not be tied to one alliance at this moment. The political situation is shifting constantly and my marriage is a tabula move I must play carefully.’

‘You old romantic, you!’ She chuckled, then leaned forward. ‘What else can you tell me of the situation in Brochena, and the Dorobon troop movements?’ The Hytel Road was becoming dangerous now, and she needed to know where else she might best operate.

He raised a finger. ‘We do have some news: King Francis is moving men toward Lybis. It is an isolated place, and Emir Mekmud is fiercely independent, as you may recall. He is reputedly on the brink of open rebellion, something none of the other lords dare at this point.’

Elena pictured Mekmud, Emir of Lybis: not someone to relax around. ‘Perhaps I should shift my activities as well, to shake things up. The caravans on the Hytel Road are well-guarded now.’ She looked up, smiled warily at Harshal. ‘Have we gained anything from this meeting, Harshal?’

‘Greater understanding of what moves us. Some news. The joy of seeing your face. All these things are worthwhile, Donna Ella.’

‘Flatterer.’ She touched her forehead. ‘Sal’Ahm, Harshal. Please, convey my greetings to the Regency Council.’

‘I shall. Sal’Ahm, Ella. May He watch over you.’

*

Kazim Makani hauled in the sails and let the skiff drift groundwards as energy bled from the keel. He guided it to the ground beside another, this one with the distinctive Keshi triangular sails.

While Elena was in Brochena, meeting with a political contact, he had a different mission. Someone had triggered the wards Elena had set at the monastery on the slopes of Mount Tigrat. He’d been under orders only to observe, and he’d had no intention of disobeying – until he had recognised the skiff below.

It was night-time, but his gnostic sight needed no light. There was no one on watch and the only signs of life were on the far side of the deserted monastery, where a fire burned.

He slipped along the familiar corridors, feeling the place take shape around him. This was where his life had changed, where he’d been pulled back from the abyss of fanaticism and turned into someone new: he’d awakened in the hands of an enemy and come to learn that she was something far different to everything he’d ever believed.

And this was also the place where he’d killed his blood-brothers to save her – from them.

As he stole down the hall leading to the stone gardens where the fire burned, he heard a man’s voice chanting funerary prayers. Then he saw him, kneeling beside the pyre, his arms raised to heaven while the bones cracked in the heat of the dancing flames.

‘
Ahm who is mercy, take these unto you. Ahm who is healing, restore them to life.
’

Kazim scanned the garden, but it was otherwise empty. He waited respectfully until the prayers were finished before standing up and calling out, ‘Sal’Ahm, Molmar!’

The man whirled, his sword flashing into his right hand and his left bunching as if holding unseen forces. The Dhassan mage peered about him, his eyes still dazzled by the firelight. He was an older man, grizzled and grey, but a dangerous warrior nevertheless. ‘Who is there?’ he called, as shields kindled about him.