‘What emergency resources do you have?’ asked Dubrayle. ‘Few plans work flawlessly.’
Your plans mightn’t, but mine do
. Gyle stopped himself from saying it out loud. ‘I have access to many other magi who can step in, including shape-masters of unsurpassed skill.’ He looked at Mater-Imperia as something flickered in her eyes.
Yes, you know who I mean
. ‘Should anything go awry, it will be swiftly corrected.’
The room fell silent. He took a cautious sip of the wine. It was an Augenheim Riesling, a fine wine.
Too good, unwatered
. He pushed it away regretfully.
After half a minute of quiet, Lucia clapped her hands. ‘Thank you,
Magister Gyle. Excellent. Stage one of the plan sounds promising.’ She looked around the table. ‘You will all have read the details in the papers I sent you. Are there any objections to considering the Javon Question as being dealt with?’
He held his breath, but there were no objections.
‘Excellent,’ purred Lucia. She reached under the table and rang a bell. The doorman appeared. ‘Ah, Hugo, bring coffee please. We might as well enjoy the fruits of our conquest while we can.’ She smiled around the table, once more the gentle mother of the people.
As they got up to stretch their legs, sipping thimbles of black coffee, Empress-Mother Lucia approached Gyle. He bowed, but she waved the gesture away genially. ‘Tell me more of this woman, Elena Anborn. A woman finds it harder to kill, you know,’ she said, almost apologetically, as though she were not the woman who was rumoured to have murdered her husband in favour of her son-in-law, despatched two lovers during the Interregnum and three since, and ordered both Crusades, each of which had resulted in more than a million deaths.
‘Elena is an altogether selfish creature, Holiness. She is motivated only by personal gain. She will not hesitate.’
Don’t let me down, Elena. Despite everything, don’t let me down
.
The Mother of the Nation, Saint of the People, smiled benevolently. ‘You had better be right, Magister Gyle, or I’ll ram a broadsword up her arse. And yours.’ She clapped her hands energetically, evidently revived by the coffee. ‘Gentlemen, to table. Magister Vult has the second part of his plan to talk us through …’
An arid land, home of a Keshi people known as the ‘Jhafi’. Following the opening of the Leviathan Bridge, many Rimoni settled there, finding the climate suited to crops from their homeland. After a civil war in the 820s, a remarkable settlement was brokered by a Lakh guru known as Kishan Dev which saw the monarchy become democratic, with candidates needing both wealth and also, incredibly, mixed Jhafi and Rimoni blood. Remarkably, this agreement has been adhered to for most of Javon’s recent history, until the Rondian Dorobon clan usurped power following the First Crusade
.
O
RDO
C
OSTRUO
C
OLLEGIATE
, P
ONTUS
Brochena, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
Septinon 927
10 months until the Moontide
The first rays of dawn stabbed across the land and lit up the cloudless skies. Elena Anborn raised a hand to shield her eyes as she gazed out, catching her breath at the stark beauty of light on dark. The mountains were purple, the olive groves shimmering grey like stones on a beach. Beneath her lay the tangled cluster of streets that made up Brochena, the Javon capital. The city was already humming with movement, black-clad women and white-turbaned men making their way to morning prayer. As the first light kissed the dome of the huge Amteh Dom-al’Ahm, the wailing voices of the Godsingers rose to summon the faithful with invocations older than the city itself. She felt an odd impulse to join them, to flutter like a bird down to the
streets and be a part of the community gathering in the shadow of the dome – not for any allegiance she held to the Amteh, just a growing desire to belong to something.
Was there any place she truly belonged? Surely not here, where she was a whiteskinned Westerner in the dark-hued East, the antithesis of all a woman was supposed to be. She was unmarried and a warrior, when a woman should be married and confined to her husband’s house – and she was magi, here where a mage was regarded as the spawn of Shaitan. In spite of all that, it was here she felt most at home.
She was tall for a woman, and habitually dressed like a man. Her body was all lean muscle and hard planes. Her face was leathered by sun and experience, her sun-bleached hair caught in a pony-tail, her pale blue eyes always moving as she leant from the window of the tower room in the Brochena Palace. The Nesti had given her the room to practise in.
Anywhere with a view
, she had asked, and they had given her views of city, desert, mountain and sky in every direction. It was a hard but generous land, full of hard but generous people.
She wished for a moment that when this was all over she could stay here, though she knew that was impossible. She had loved the desert from the first, the sands calling to an emptiness inside her.
I’m going to miss this place
–
even the stench of the souks, where men piss against walls and every manner of litter is left to rot, where dung is fuel and bathing is done in a river that looks like a sewage canal
. But coffee hung in the morning air; she could smell it even here, and the colours of the silks and the calls of the traders and the ever-present singing and chanting of the priests … these would haunt her for ever.
Sipping a thimble of spiced coffee, she tried to picture her wet, gloomy homeland, but she couldn’t. Brochena was too vivid for such fancies. The air was chilly this morning, and a ground mist clogged with campfire smoke hung over much of the desert lands. Winter was approaching, though the days were still hot. The rainy season was over for 927; it would not be until Julsven next year that it
rained again, and by then the Moontide would have come, the Leviathan Bridge would have risen from the sea and Urte would be plunged once again into war.
She was about to turn away when a redwing swooped and called brightly before landing on the ledge outside the window. The bird had no concern at her handling it to extract the message from the pouch tied to its leg. She recognised Gurvon Gyle’s sigil on the pouch and his face flashed inside her mind: lean, spare, certain.
My lover
–
can I still call him that when I’ve not seen him for a year? My boss, anyway. The keeper of my fortune
.
She almost pocketed the message without reading it. She didn’t really want to know what it might say. But that would be foolish. She exhaled heavily and unwrapped the note. It was brief and to the point.
Wear your gems
. Little else was needed; those three words said everything.
Wear your gems
: it was Gurvon’s pet way of saying, ‘Action is imminent: pack your bags and be ready to leave at a second’s notice.’
She did a brief mental inventory: her bedchamber was almost empty, save for a small chest for her clothes, a few gifts from the royal family – some Jhafi shawls and a bekira-shroud for going out in public – and her sword. She wore the turquoise periapt that helped her channel the gnosis at her throat. It wasn’t a lot, not for a lifetime of struggle. Of course, she also had gold, a career’s worth of gold … entrusted to Gurvon.
She’d met Gurvon Gyle when she joined the Noros Forest Rangers in 909. She’d been twenty-one. A half-blood daughter of half-blood parents, she had graduated in 906, too late to join the First Crusade when it stormed Hebusalim. Her elder sister Tesla had been there and nearly died. Elena had enlisted with the Volsai, Imperial Intelligence. By 909, when it was clear rebellion was coming, she, like all the Noros-born agents, deserted and joined the Royal Noros Army as scouts. Gurvon Gyle, newly arrived back from the Crusades, was her captain. He had a world-weary, cynical charm that made her smile, and he hadn’t mistaken her for a weakling, unlike most. They had bonded sharing missions, and when she finally slipped
into his tent one cold wet night somewhere north of Knebb, the horrors another of Betillon’s massacres fresh in her eyes, he had appeared to need her as much as she needed him.
The Revolt had been strangely glorious, even in defeat. Despite all she had seen and done – and though it felt terrible to say so now – she had loved it. Magister-General Robler and his army had destroyed Rondelmar’s far larger armies in a series of remarkable victories that were now held up as textbook examples of warfare. Gyle’s Grey Foxes were heroes, kept hidden and fed by the villagers, and for a while victory had seemed possible, despite the odds. But promised aid from neighbouring kingdoms never came, the mysterious magi who had promised victory vanished, and the Noros legions were gradually isolated and surrounded. Vult’s army surrendered at Lukhazan, leaving Robler’s forces trapped in the high valleys as winter set in, where they perished in swathes until Robler surrendered.
For Elena the post-Revolt period was traumatic. Normalcy was impossible after two years of danger so she had joined Gyle’s new company of mage-spies. Officially they provided protection services to the wealthy, but secretly their work was much dirtier: espionage and assassination. The Rondians wanted to root out the dissidents who had threatened to join the Noros Revolt, and suddenly she found herself on the other side, hunting for the enemies of the empire. For a while it bothered her, but she learned not to care. She went where Gurvon told her, killed the targets he gave her. Her conscience died and her heart became a lump of rock as she slit the throats of good men and murdered innocents who had been unfortunate enough to witness something dangerous. She became a constantly shifting set of lies and illusions; nothing mattered but the gold. Eventually everything led her here to the most lucrative job yet: to protect the Javon king and his family throughout the Crusade. It was just a protection role, and she could even use her own name, for the first time in years.
It had taken time to remember that she was more than a weapon, but the children had broken her down, with their instinctive willingness to trust her, the genuine smiles they shared, the silly games that had reminded her how to laugh. Four years in which to feel
alive once more, to realise that life was not just a marking of time. And now this …
Wear your gems
…
Damn! I
belong
here, Gurvon
…
She sent the redwing on its way, putting its poisonous little message from her mind. She began to limber up for her morning work-out, her movements kicking up motes of dust that glinted in the streaks of light that cut through the otherwise shadowy chamber. The distant call of the Godsingers and the cawing of the crows faded as her concentration deepened. She stretched, spun, kicked and punched the air, working up a sweat as she twirled about the mechanism in the centre of the chamber. Finally she stopped, picked up a wooden sword that leant against the wall and turned to face the machine.
‘
Bastido, uno
,’ she said both aloud and with the gnosis, and the device came alive. Pale amber light sparked from beneath the helm, its four legs unfolded like a spider’s and the gnosis-powered mechanism crept forward with sinister grace. In each of its four ‘arms’ was a blunted weapon: a sword, a chain flail, a metal-studded mace and a spear-shaft. A small buckler hung beneath a helm that swivelled eerily to face her as she circled. Suddenly sword and spear lunged at once; she parried the blade with gnosis-shielding and the spear with her sword and the bout was on. For forty seconds she darted and lunged, parried and circled until she scored a hit on the helm and the machine lapsed into sullen stillness, though the visor still followed her, glowering like a smacked child.
‘Got you, Bastido,’ she panted. Most mage-born girls refused to take swordplay, and those who did were usually too delicate and flighty to last through the rigours of the training. But Elena had always been a tomcat, brought up in the country where she’d run wild. She had taken the cuffs and blows as she followed the taxing physical regime, until she’d finally won Blademaster Batto’s approval. She was the only girl from Bricia’s Arcanum d’Etienne College to graduate with full honours in weaponry. Bastido – The Bastard – was Batto’s parting gift to her.
She saluted, readying herself. ‘
Bastido, duo
.’
This time the machine was more aggressive, its blows subtler, its movements less patterned. The mace joined the fray and now three weapons were always arrayed against her, keeping her constantly leaping, jumping, using Air-gnosis to swoop in and out, bouncing off the walls, parrying with power and precision until she scored another hit. By now she was bathed in perspiration and her breath was coming in gasps. Bastido twitched as if furious with her, itching to lash out.
Go on
, it seemed to be saying,
try me on cinque
.
‘I don’t think so, Bastido.’ She grinned. She’d only tried the fifth once, and the fight had been over in seconds. Three blinding blows had broken her sword-arm and two ribs, and she’d had to be pulled clear by Gurvon. She wouldn’t be trying that again – it would always be a step too far at her age. But she did fight another bout, this time on
tre
, scoring half a second before collecting the mace in her left shoulder, which sent her sprawling. ‘Hey, that was
after
my touch,’ she complained.
The machine almost smirked. Some days it seemed alive.
She took a few deep breaths, bade Bastido return to his place in the corner and deactivated the gnosis-creation. She was parched, and drank deeply from the bucket of water she had hauled up the stairs that morning before tipping the rest over her head. The sodden fabric clung to her, cooling her flushed and sweating frame. She could feel her face burning, pictured the pink glow beneath her freckles and lines. She looked down at her tunic, plastered against her flat chest, her hard belly and muscular thighs. She was no one’s idea of beautiful, she knew that, and unlike any other women she knew, even other magi. For a second she felt that wave of loneliness again, and quelled it irritably.