Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (102 page)

The Imperial mage slammed his knee into Ramon’s groin and he almost vomited up the contents of the vial, but he forcibly swallowed it back down as the dagger was pressed to his throat and the man snapped, ‘Yield or die, Dubrayle.’

The startling fact that the man knew his father’s name made Ramon slam down his mental shields even as his body went rigid. He repelled a sudden blast of mesmeric-gnosis designed to cripple his mind. Their eyes met – the other man’s were a bleak grey – and they contended mentally before the dagger pricked his throat again. ‘Either I cut your throat, or you let me Chain you, boy.’

He made the decision to relent as the venom he’d ingested began to take away his choice. As he lay on his back and the Chain-rune began to form about him, he had a close-up view of the slickness of the Imperial attack. Most of their magi had formed a perimeter around the bullion wagons and all the crates were hurriedly checked then moved with kinesis into the windcraft while Seth’s Lost Legions were still trying to organise some kind of response amidst the confusion. Torches flared all along the lines, arrows whistled in, but the counter-fire was muted and sporadic. Then the pain of the Chain-rune left him in convulsions.

As he lay there, his awareness shrinking and his vision blurring, he realised that the grey-clad man was still kneeling over him, guiding in a windskiff. ‘Get him aboard,’ he ordered tersely.

‘The gold’s almost loaded, sir,’ one of the windsailors called, grabbing Ramon’s ankles. The Rondians dumped him like a sack of grain into the skiff and the craft rose, as with rising panic Ramon realised the enormity of what he’d just done to himself.

The grey-clad man vaulted over the sides of the windcraft nimbly, straddling him and looking down. He had lank brown hair and a ferret-like face, flushed with success. ‘Master Dubrayle, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance,’ he said cheerfully. ‘My name is Gurvon Gyle, and you are my prisoner.’ Then his face went from smug triumph to worry as he took in Ramon’s slack features and glazed eyes. ‘Shit! He’s taken poison.’

41

Imperial Fleet

Leviathan

In northern Yurosian myth, the Leviathan is a giant sea-serpent who swims the ocean. It is one of the spawn of Shaitan, the universal figure of evil who features in both Yurosian and Antiopian religious myth. Massive beyond reckoning, Leviathan is said to be able to take bites out of the coastline, and whip up giant waves. One day, the sea-folk say, Leviathan will swallow the land, presaging the end of the world. But in Kore mythology, Corineus will slay the Leviathan, heralding the Days of Bliss.

O
RDO
C
OSTRUO
A
RCANUM,
H
EBUSALIM, 771

Midpoint, Leviathan Bridge

Akhira (Junesse) 930

24
^th
and last month of the Moontide

Ramon Sensini woke in bleary waves of consciousness from a very strange and involved dream. He had dim recollections of questions, and a lot of punches to the belly. His stomach muscles were screaming. As more of his faculties returned, he realised that he was bound hand and foot and roped to a pair of metal rings screwed into a wall inside a small wooden room. From the sound of wind and the motion of the floor, he decided he was below-decks on a very large windship.

He wasn’t alone; there was another man chained as he was and bound to a hook on the opposite wall. He was slumped over, looking at Ramon with grave, reserved eyes.

Ramon knew him: it was Alaron’s father. ‘
Vann?
’

Vannaton Mercer winced, as though he’d hoped that Ramon would somehow prove to be a figment of his imagination. But the spell was broken now; the illusion had spoken. ‘Ramon? It is truly you? Holy Kore, what are you doing here?’

‘I was going to ask you the same thing,’ Ramon groaned. ‘You were supposed to be safe . . . we hoped—’

‘Some hope! But you’re alive – when Gyle brought you in here, he thought you were dying. They tried to neutralise the poison but they weren’t at all certain they’d succeeded . . .’

‘They must have done enough,’ Ramon replied warily. ‘We shouldn’t speak. There may be listeners.’

Vann still wanted to talk, though. ‘Why do the Volsai think I know anything about the Scytale of Corineus, for Kore’s sake?’ Pain flared in his eyes. ‘Is Alaron . . . ?’

Ramon slowly rubbed a thumb to his palm: the Silacian hand-sign that all was well. Vann nodded faintly, just once. They fell silent as Ramon tested the Chain-rune; it was strong, and his gnostic senses were blinded, though he did wonder if . . .

Vann spoke again, interrupting his train of thought. ‘Listen, I’ll tell you my story anyway. I’ve already told them a hundred times: I was pulled off the road by Jean Benoit during the early months of the Crusade. He’d heard that Inquisitors were asking about me, and Alaron too. He put me in a safehouse in Pontus and kept me stocked up – wine, food and gossip. But a couple of weeks ago, with no explanation, I was handed over to the Owls. They’ve been questioning me, but I know nothing about what they keep asking.’

‘So Benoit sold you out, or one of his underlings did.’

‘Who knows? Anyway, they’ve not really hurt me yet: I think because they know I’m telling the truth. I think I’m just insurance. But the day before yesterday they rushed me here.’

‘Yesterday? How long have I been out?’

‘You’ve been in here with me for a day. This is the first time you’ve been awake in – well, perhaps two days?’

Ramon groaned.
What if I spoke . . . then they’d know all about Alaron and the Scytale . . . Which would explain why they’d rush Vann here.
‘Vann, they’re going to use you to get Alaron to turn himself in. They’ll already be trying to contact him.’

Vann looked ill. ‘What’s he done?’

‘I can’t say, but think about it and you’ll work it out.’

Sol et Lune, we’re screwed. Alaron will surrender the Scytale to save his father, and then Lucia will unleash all her rukking Volsai and Keepers and the rest on Seth.

Time passed in an agony of bitterness, that all he’d done – that
they’d
all done – was going to fall short.

Then the door opened and a pair of burly windsailors clambered in, wrenched them both from the metal rings, and hauled them out into a narrow below-decks corridor. They were permitted to piss in the privy, then manhandled up a flight of steps and into a small room, richly appointed by windship standards. The Imperial Sacred Heart was embossed on every fixture, in gilt and paint, and the timbers were polished walnut, exquisitely finished. The seats they were made to kneel before were cushioned in purple velvet with gold tassels, imperial colours.

Some rich bastard’s ship . . . I guess we’re about to find out whose.

The door opened and three people came through. The first was Gurvon Gyle. He was on his toes, quivering with nervous energy, wide-eyed and alert as he took in the room and the captives. Then he faded into the background as a far more arresting pair, a man and a woman, entered.

Ramon’s eyes went wide.

The man was young, in his twenties, with smooth cheeks and a mousy beard, a weak chin and furrowed brow, slightly stooped beneath the weight of a heavy gold crown. He was clad in heavy velvets and ermine, purple and red with a Sacred Heart embroidered on the back of his cloak. He flinched at seeing Ramon and Vann, as if the sight of them was offensive.

‘Mother, who are these men?’

‘They’re just a pair of common traitors,’ the woman replied. She had a pleasant but subtly forbidding face, framed by perfectly styled honey-blonde hair set with a diamond tiara. Her dress was cream-coloured, with a matching gem-encrusted cloak, and like Gyle, her eyes were everywhere at once. ‘I said you didn’t need to be here.’

Sol et Lune . . . the emperor and his Sainted Mother . . .

Emperor Constant’s mouth twisted sullenly. ‘You never tell me what’s really happening.’ He grabbed Vann’s hair and yanked it cruelly. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m Vannaton Mercer,’ Vann gritted. ‘Widower of Tesla Anborn of Norostein.’

‘Another Noroman cowpat!’ Constant sneered. ‘I’m sick of them!’ Then his eyes narrowed. ‘Anborn?
Berial’s
line? Is this man related to that traitor-woman in Javon? What was her name?’

‘Elena Anborn,’ Gurvon Gyle replied, a touch reluctantly.

Constant snickered lewdly. ‘That’s right: the bint whose purse you were stuffing.’ He flapped his hands disgustedly, then looked at Ramon. ‘Who’s the Rimoni?’

‘He’s Silacian,’ Mater-Imperia Lucia said, with grim satisfaction. She stepped before Ramon and slapped him, a gnosis-strengthened blow that almost took his head off. He found himself up against one wall, his cheek throbbing scarlet and his brain rattling inside his skull. ‘Not so cocky now, you filthy smear of slime!’

Ramon strained at his bonds with futile rage, biting back a retort.

‘You know him, Mother?’ Constant asked irritably. ‘Who is he?’

‘This is Ramon Sensini . . . the bastard son of Calan Dubrayle.’ Lucia smiled in satisfaction. ‘I’ve wondered whether these constant crises in the Treasury are being manufactured by Dubrayle to create opportunities for himself. Now we find his own bastard embroiled in his plots. A confession from this piece of filth will be enough to bring his father down.’

Constant grinned as comprehension hit him. ‘I don’t like Dubrayle. He’s too smart. I don’t like clever people.’

Ramon spat blood on the pristine floor. ‘Luckily you’re surrounded by idiots.’

Constant kicked him in the belly and his vision went white as his holders dropped him and he fell to the floor. ‘Don’t you dare insult my mother, you heathen scum.’

‘Are you sure she’s your mother?’ He grinned recklessly.

The next kick cracked at least two ribs.

‘Enough!’ Lucia snapped. ‘He’s baiting you, dearest. He thinks that he’s got nothing to lose.’ Her voice became sly. ‘He’s quite wrong. I’ve seen the reports: he’s got a daughter down there. Julietta, isn’t it?’ Mater-Imperia’s reptilian eyes fixed on his. ‘Her future promises to be very,
very
brief.’

No, not my daughter
—

Constant smirked, then yawned. ‘Then hand him over to the torturers. I’ve got better things to do than dirty my boots on him.’ He sauntered out, whistling.

‘The empire’s in wonderful hands,’ Ramon managed to gasp.

‘It is,’ Lucia replied. ‘We’ve prepared a confession, to be despatched to Pallas. You will add any relevant names we’ve omitted to the list of conspirators before we shatter every bone in your body then drip acid over you. Believe me, the Master Torturer will keep you alive, conscious and able to feel for far longer than you imagine. You have mocked me; there is a price to pay for that.’ She turned to Gyle. ‘How long until the Keepers are ready?’

‘About four hours,’ Gyle replied. ‘The power in the solarus crystals will reach their peak two hours after midday.’

Through the pain and the mental anguish, Ramon wondered what they meant.

‘Excellent,’ Lucia said smugly. ‘We’ll bring these two out to watch. I want the Silacian to see the deaths of his daughter and his entire deserter rabble.’ She turned to Gyle again. ‘How much gold was recovered?’

‘Seventy crates of ingots, Holiness. I estimate two hundred thousand gilden, at pre-war prices. That’s now worth millions at today’s gold price.’

‘Extraordinary.’ She looked at Ramon, faintly impressed, then at Gyle. ‘When he’s dead, I want his skull dipped in gold, as a souvenir.’ Her eyes went to Vann. ‘As for this one: keep trying to make contact with his son and let him know that we have him. Tell him if he tries to intervene, his father dies.’

‘My son will know that if I’m in your hands, I’m dead already,’ Vann replied.

Lucia’s hooded eyes narrowed. ‘Your son will not defy me. No one does. The cataclysm to come will show him that.’ She whirled and stalked out.

Ramon looked at Vann with widening eyes.
What cataclysm?

*

Seth Korion stared at the blackened circle of wreckage in the midst of the column with a numbed heart. ‘You say the bullion wagons are all gone?’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘All twenty of them?’

Tribune Storn, logisticalus of the tenth maniple of Pallacios Thirteen, nodded wanly. ‘Entirely, sir.’

When the attack had come, he’d been asleep near the advance guard. By the time he’d arrived, the enemy windcraft were lifting away. Losses had been light – apparently Ramon had advised the cohort commanders to keep their men well away from the wagons – and the enemy had been mostly focused on the wagons.

Which is what matters most to them, after all. We’re nothing, compared to that.

‘They’ve
really
captured Sensini?’ If he asked often enough, perhaps someone would say ‘No’.

‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Storn looked stricken. ‘He often spoke of the dangers. We’ve some contingencies in place.’

‘Contingencies? I don’t need those: I need Ramon!’ He looked at Jelaska helplessly. The Argundian sorceress was glaring up into the night, but their one windskiff had been burned out in the raid so they had no way of striking back, and no protection from the air at all. ‘We should have returned to Ardijah,’ he moaned.

He realised he was shaking and sweating, standing alone in a circle of watching faces, and none of them was the person he needed.
Ramon was always in control of this army. I’m just a figurehead. What the Hel do I do?

‘Calmly, lad,’ Jelaska murmured. ‘The army draws inspiration from its commander.’

‘But I don’t know what to do.’

‘Nor I. But we’re on a three-hundred-mile-long piece of stone, and if we don’t get off one end, we drown.’ She sighed regretfully. ‘We’ve always known we’d get to this point one day, Seth. Dreams end. We were dead the moment we were assigned to the Southern Army.’ She didn’t sound unhappy about it, but she was a Necromancer; maybe she was looking forward to death.