He couldn’t deny that. His spies told him that the al-Shaar Courts were as barbaric as any Inquisition Court in Yuros. ‘His judgement in some matters has been … hmmm, rather extreme, I admit.’
‘He’s a Godspeaker: his only standard of judgement is a book written hundreds of years ago which demands maiming or killing for every crime.’
‘That’s what happens when you leave priests in charge of the law.’
‘Javon has used the Rimoni Empire system of adversarial justice for centuries,’ Cera told him, lifting her head proudly. ‘But perhaps you prefer allowing the same people who declared shihad against you to settle your civil cases now?’
He looked at her, his interest piqued.
Perhaps there is something going on here I can use …
Civil law hadn’t been a priority of his, and it was the blade you ignored that invariably got you where it hurt. ‘Once Perdonello has completed the reforms, civil law will be given to the bureaucracy, where it belongs under Rondian law.’
‘And when exactly will that be?’ she enquired archly. ‘Six months for Don Perdonello to complete his redrafting, a year, maybe? Then his people will have to
learn
the law: his Grey Crows are not trained as legalae; they don’t as a matter of course learn the things I’ve been taught.’
‘You have no authority to judge cases,’ he reminded her sharply, annoyed that she was right.
‘No, I don’t. Not legally. But some people listen to what I say.’
He’d seen that. Though he spoke no Jhafi, he’d heard the tones of the voices, felt the mood of the gathering. He had sensed the growing bonds, formed of indignation and anger and now he extrapolated that in his mind, imagining crowds in the thousands, women and men alike, all hanging on this girl’s words and then going forth and applying them in the alleys and slums surrounding the palace.
What would you make of that, Acmed al-Istan?
‘When Francis is told what you are doing, he may demand that you stop,’ he said levelly.
Cera’s lips tightened. ‘Perhaps.’
If she is allowed to do this, she could a problem – but an unchecked Amteh clergy is even more dangerous.
‘I could put in a good word for you,’ he said, meeting her eye. ‘If I felt so inclined.’
‘What are you insinuating?’ she asked, her voice loaded with disgust.
He found himself colouring. ‘I’m not
insinuating
anything. I’m
saying
that I could allow you to play Justiciari, if I thought it was in the best interest of the empire.’
‘Then if you want your empire to rule over a kingdom that is not tearing itself apart piece by piece through negligence, put in your “good word” without sounding like a whoremonger,’ she snapped.
He bared his teeth. ‘You’re getting well above yourself, you little Noorie bint. It’s time Francis put a child in your belly so we can lock you up in the nursery where you can rule over swaddling and lactation routines.’
‘At least I’d be suited to that by nature. You’re not fit to rule anything, spy.’
‘I have a kingdom at my feet: yours!’
‘Even so. You might understand all there is to know about
gaining
power, but you know nothing about how to
use
it, and therefore you will lose it.’
‘Think you so?’ His temper flashed. ‘I am newly appointed as Imperial Legate here.’
‘An empty title that your emperor could revoke in an instant.’ She quoted from an old Rimoni philosopher: ‘He who disdains the will of the people must rule by fear, and live in fear.’
‘I am a Rondian mage: fear is for lesser mortals.’
‘We both know the truth of that, Magister. I’m sure you enjoyed the cells as much as I did.’
He glared. ‘You might think standing up to me is brave, girl, but it’s not. It’s foolish in the extreme.’
She half-turned her head, as if offering a cheek to his hand. The smugness of the gesture infuriated him, but even as the thought that she deserved a beating crossed his mind, a voice intruded.
‘Cera?’
He turned as a tall woman with tangle of red ringlets cascading across her porcelain-pale shoulders entered Cera’s suite. Combat reflexes had kindled mage-light in his palms before he recognised Portia Tolidi, Cera’s sister-queen.
‘Haven’t you done enough damage?’ she snapped, brushing past him as if he were a disobedient child. She gathered Cera into her arms like a protective older sister. ‘Leave her alone!’
He hadn’t yet got Portia worked out. She was the undoubted beauty of the realm and Francis’ favourite wife, but to Gurvon she seemed a hollow thing. Her family had commanded that she give herself to the young Dorobon king and so she did, but she feigned her affection for Francis. He’d spied on the royal bed and seen her move like a
galmi
, the stone construct of Brician gnostic lore; her body present but her soul faraway. He could never tell what she was thinking, or how she really felt. This was the most emotion he’d ever seen in her, and even now it seemed reserved and calculated, as if she were nothing more than a mediocre actress delivering poorly written lines.
Nevertheless, he had botched this scene. ‘I had news of her Majesty’s illness,’ he said stiffly. ‘I am here merely to assure myself that the queen is well.’
‘I am well,’ Cera said from within Portia’s sheltering arms. ‘But not well enough to dine publically tonight. I wish only to sit quietly with my sister-queen.’
There was something intimidating in their defiance, as if they took strength from each other. ‘Then I wish you both good day,’ he said curtly, and left openly by the bedchamber door, startling the guard outside who’d not seen him enter. He strode blindly down the corridors to his own suite, and once he was certain he was alone, he kicked a stone wall until his toes were bruised and his annoyance had receded.
‘Gurvon?’
He looked around, angry to be seen in this mood but trying quickly to soften his face for Coin. The shapeshifter was wearing Olivia Dorobon’s form, as it was still important to keep Francis from discovering that his beloved sister was dead, slain by Coin herself. Poor fat, boring Olivia, who thought only of food and fleshly pleasures. Gurvon had been screwing the real Olivia as much to annoy Octa as to secure Francis’ support, but he had not enjoyed the liaison and had stopped it the moment Coin had assumed Olivia’s persona.
‘Gurvon,’ Coin said in Olivia’s sing-song voice, ‘they’re looking for you downstairs.’
Sighing, he joined her in the entrance hall to his suite. The last thing he wanted was another stupid banquet. ‘Then I suppose that is where I must be.’
She put a hand on his arm. ‘We could be a little late,’ she said slyly.
‘No.’ He removed it gently. ‘That fiction is over. I’ve told you before.’
‘Francis liked that you were bedding his sister.’
‘I don’t care what that child prefers. He is my puppet, and he’ll think what I tell him to.’
‘Then what good do I serve pretending to be this gross cow?’ Coin whined. She clutched her Olivia-sized stomach. ‘You think I like waddling around like this? I feel like a pig in a trough.’
‘You’re doing important work,’ Gurvon said, trying to keep his temper.
I’m getting utterly sick of women who don’t know their place
. ‘He’s only getting through this because he thinks you’re with him – he’s lost everyone else he cares about—’
‘Hogshit! He spends most nights carousing with his knights – he doesn’t even summon Portia to his bed any more, not now he thinks she might be pregnant. He certainly doesn’t give a shit about his sister.’ Abruptly, Coin altered herself, flowing smoothly from shape to shape in a way that only an absolute master of the art could manage. This was her magic: she was the most perfect shapeshifter of mage history, capable of becoming either gender, flawlessly and with perfect control.
She’d put on Elena’s face and form and he flinched as she sashayed towards him, her small Elena-breasts revealed as the dress, too large for the smaller body, slipped off her shoulders. ‘Would you rather I looked like this?’
‘Yvette!’ he snapped, hoping her given name would focus her erratic mind. Her instability made it too easy to forget that she was a pure-blood mage capable of ripping him apart. Her devotion had been hard-won and right now it – and his safety – were at risk here.
‘Or maybe you’d prefer this?’ she added maliciously, as with a twist of meat and bone, Coin became Portia, radiantly beautiful, the dress slipping to her hips, the breasts growing into perfect orbs. Coin had evidently been creeping about at night as well, studying the shapes of the palace women. She seized his limp hand and placed it over her right breast. ‘Want to be king for a night?’ she purred.
‘No, Yvette,’ he said, though his mouth had gone dry.
‘Or maybe Cera is more your preference: you were crawling all over her when Octa found you both.’ Now her voice had dropped to a bitter whine.
He grimaced and looked away as Coin became the Nesti queen, perfectly rendered.
‘Yvette, I have a role to play, and so do you.
Please.
We will resolve these … personal matters … another time.’
She met his eyes and he recognised madness and desire.
For six months he had tended her devotedly while she had lain at the very threshold of death. He had seen it as an investment; if he succeeded, he would have a powerful – and unsuspected – agent at the court, one who owed him
everything
. He wasn’t entirely heartless, no matter what Cera Nesti might think, and he could not deny feeling a smidgeon of pity for the hermaphrodite. But he didn’t want her adoration, just her obedience. He took on the persona of a father gently upbraiding a beloved child: ‘Yvette, I do not respect neediness. I admire intelligence and capability. I know you feel you owe me, that you are looking for ways to repay that debt. I know you’re lonely and desire solace. But I can’t give you that until you have
earned
it, by showing the qualities I admire. Wearing another person’s face won’t achieve that.’
For one horrible second he thought he might have to fight for his life. Her eyes hooded and her face became another, seldom seen: her own. She was thin to the point of emaciation, her features bland and indeterminate, her thin ginger cut close to her scalp. Her teeth seemed to grow as her lips parted.
Then she … he …
it
… calmed. ‘You resurrected me!’ she bleated. ‘You saved my life! How can you be so indifferent?’
‘Yvette, I
do
care about you – and I know you know that, deep down. But what you want can’t happen. Did Octa’s strike teach you nothing? We are on a knife’s edge here. Play your part, be Olivia a while longer, and everything we want will come about, I promise.’
He’d made such vague promises all his life, words that seemed to say one thing but in reality said little at all. Coin was still naïve enough to be placated by such baseless promises, though.
‘Very well. I won’t let you down,’ she swore, solemn as a child.
‘I know you won’t,’ he replied, straightening her dress for her, a pretence of intimacy. ‘Now, be Olivia for me, and attend upon her brother.’
Her body reformed once more, back into the voluptuous shape of the king’s sister, and she smiled winningly at him before waddling off with new purpose.
Gurvon watched her go while adding her to his growing list of worries.
For now, she’s still useful.
He sighed.
But I’m going to have to kill her eventually.
*
Cera waited until the door was shut behind them, before she turned and gave Portia the welcome she had wanted to give the moment she’d stepped into the room. She kissed her lips, pressed herself to her, trembling in the warmth and feel of her. ‘Amora,’ she breathed.
Portia pulled away. ‘That man Gyle frightens me,’ she whispered. ‘At any moment he could drag us down. I was so frightened when they locked you away. I begged and pleaded but Francis did nothing.’
‘I won’t let Gyle hurt us,’ Cera swore, rashly and against all reason.
Portia’s lovely face was clouded with doubt and fear. ‘What can we do against him?’
‘We are queens. We’re not helpless.’
‘Queens married to a stupid lustful boy,’ Portia said, her lips curling, ‘who thinks only with his dildus.’
‘I know.’ Cera stroked her lustrous hair, kissed her perfect ear lobe. ‘But who controls that, my darling? You do.’
Portia’s face became clouded. ‘He knows that my bleeding is late. In a few days he will announce that I am with child.’
They both knew what that meant: Portia would be sent to Hytel until she came to term.
‘Perhaps when I am also with child, he will send me to my family in Forensa,’ Cera joked bitterly. Hytel was a Dorobon-controlled territory while Forensa remained free. ‘I wish I could go with you.’
‘I wish Mater Lune would kill the child in my belly,’ Portia cursed. Her hands crept over her still-flat stomach. ‘I can feel it in there, like a serpent.’
‘Nonsense,’ Cera whispered, ignoring the blasphemy. She didn’t blame Portia for feeling that way. ‘You won’t feel anything for ages.’ She hugged her sister-queen and tried to kiss her, but Portia pulled her face away.
‘Don’t, Cera. I don’t feel loving right now.’ Her voice was sour. Then she looked at Cera properly. ‘You look pretty tonight.’
Cera put her head against Portia’s breast, leaned into her, desperately wanting to be held, to be touched with a loving hand, but she could feel the mood slipping away. ‘I don’t feel pretty, just tired. I was in the Beggars’ Court all day.’
‘Why did you put yourself through that?’ Portia asked.
She adored Portia, but Cera couldn’t understand her lover’s total disinterest towards what was happening outside the palace walls. ‘They’re suffering,
amora mia
. Someone needs to hear them. Francis won’t.’
‘The poor are always complaining, darling.’
‘They have much to complain about. You should hear their stories.’
Portia shook her head, making her ringlets ripple like liquid gold. ‘Let the Crows deal with them.’
‘Perdonello’s Crows are too busy and the clergy are botching it. Someone has to listen.’
Portia stroked her shoulders. ‘But not you,
amora
. All that time outside is bad for your skin – and your clothes smell of smoke from the street. You really must look after yourself better.’