Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (35 page)

*

Baltus Prenton jabbed again, keeping up the attack, forcing the Keshi mage back. The man was a fine fighter, better than he was, in truth, but Baltus had one advantage: he controlled the tiller. With each thrust he nudged it with kinesis, making the craft pitch in his chosen direction, throwing the other man off-balance, until the Hadishah snagged his heel on a brace and fell sprawling to the deck. Baltus stabbed at the man’s exposed left thigh; the shortsword went into the man’s leg and hit bone.

The Keshi gasped and his grip loosened on his scimitar, which spun away.

Gotcha!

Then the Hadishah grabbed Baltus’ sword-arm. Their eyes locked; the look of agonised concentration on the assassin’s face was terrifying. He pulled at Baltus’ wrist, almost breaking it, not allowing him to withdraw the blade, while with his right hand he fished inside his robes until he came up with a curved dagger which he thrust at Baltus’ chest.

He caught the man’s arm in his left hand, planted his feet and tried to wrench his sword-arm free – then the ground came up and they struck, pancaking into the ground and slewing prow-first through the packed Keshi, crushing them. The jolt made the blade in the Hadishah’s leg wrench to one side, causing fresh agony to bloom and breaking his strength. At last Baltus’ blade came free; he staggered as he lost hold of the man’s right arm but he concentrated on his quarry and rammed the shortsword into the man’s chest, piercing his chainmail into flesh, even as something punched into his belly. He gasped, panting, as the light went out of his enemy’s eyes.

Holy Kore! Thank you thank you thank you
 
. . .
He thought wryly of Kippenegger, who promised animal sacrifices to his war-god.
Perhaps I should send Kore a bull . . .

Then he looked down and saw the dagger in his stomach, and the damage that the gnosis-fire on its blade had wrought. Numbness spread, and his legs started to feel like they belonged to someone else. He looked about dazedly, saw Jelaska, only some twenty yards away in the press, and tried to tell her that—

*

The Keshi around the skiff reacted before she could as Baltus fell on his face. They swarmed in, blades rising, and her lover was buried beneath a dozen or more. She blasted at them with mage-fire and terror and the closest to her died of fear while others burned and broke. But the Keshi counter-attack was coming in from all sides.

She screamed Baltus’ name as her commanders bellowed orders, demanding another surge from her exhausted men, and they swept forward, launching themselves at the skiff and those around it, and she was borne along by the throng. The Keshi fought tooth and nail, but the Argundian war-spears chewed them up, stabbing from out of reach then trampling the fallen as they continued their advance until the enemy broke and fled, leaving her men in control of the field.

Jelaska didn’t need to shove through her men, for they parted silently, respectfully, before her. Their eyes told her all she needed to know.

Baltus’ torso lay amidst a pile of severed limbs. His head was gone, a trophy for some bloody-handed Keshi, and his intestines had been blasted to charred meat. He was lying on top of a dead Hadishah in the bottom of the hull.

Life is a dark joke, love is a lie and curses
are
real.
She spat a bitter curse on all Keshi,
knowing
such magic to be real now.

I am cursed, and Baltus paid the price.

*

Sultan Salim sat on his throne in his pavilion, the front wall opened so that he could watch the sun fall amidst the smoke and ruin of the day.

Pashil was dead, slain while killing the enemy skiff-pilot, and eight other Hadishah had also fallen. Thousands of their best footmen had been slaughtered too, the losses horrific, and for no reward. The Rondians still held.

Another day like today and the men will begin to doubt . . . if they do not already.

He glowered at the Godspeakers, who earned their reputation for wisdom by staying well away. There was no one he wished to speak to; no one whose words could bring comfort, except perhaps his impersonators, whose role it was to share his burdens and his pain.

Great Ahm, is this truly what you wish of us? When we die for you, do you truly rejoice at our devotion? When we offer you our suffering, do you even want it? What possible good can you derive from so much loss?

There were no answers to such prayers.

Finally, Dashimel, Emir of Baraka, made his way up and prostrated himself – with some difficulty; he had become paunchy of late – before the throne. Dashimel was a gentle man, a poet, but he was also a soldier of long experience.

‘Dash, my friend, tell me what we should do,’ Salim said.

Dashimel glanced over his shoulder at the Godspeakers and at the Hadishah Qanaroz, Pashil’s second; they’d been posturing for the last hour, making loud speeches to each other about avenging all this tomorrow. ‘The battle remains to be won, Lord,’ he started. ‘The enemy must surely be weakened—’

‘In all honesty? Please! Don’t give me the same words as them, Dash. It’s a strip of land where nothing grows and no one lives! Remind me why we should die over it.

Dashimel bowed his head, then spoke quietly. ‘Great Sultan, it is true that we could break this camp open, but it will come only at even greater cost. Our losses will mount, because the Rondians are masters of close-packed combat. They have the armour, the weaponry – and the discipline. Their men are not conscripts but highly trained soldiers. And their magi know how to fight in such formations.’ He scowled, but he went on. ‘Our strength is in archery and numbers. Moreover, we have open supply lines and they do not. Let time do what assault cannot: pen them here and starve them out. Let disease take hold in their camp. And when they break cover, rain all the arrows in Kesh upon them. But save your men, Majesty, for there are other, far more vital battles to fight elsewhere.’

At last,
Salim thought,
some advice that rings true!

‘Well spoken, my friend. They cannot attack for fear of our archers so we will starve them out, until their magi slip away across the river and they capitulate. We’re needed elsewhere.’ He made some calculations. ‘I will keep thirty thousand here to hold them – I will leave an impersonator here, and General Darhus. Then we will march the bulk of our army north and cross the river.’

‘As you command, Great Sultan.’ Dashimel touched his fist to his heart.

Salim looked again at the Rondian camp, shrouded in cooking-fire smoke, legion banners flying defiantly overhead.
Seth Korion and I could solve this over a glass of wine . . . but that is not the way of the world. Instead, men must die.

13

Persuasion

Lanti a’Khomi

The greatest beauty of all time was Lanti a’Khomi, a daughter of the Mirobez royal family. It is said that her smile could stop a man’s heart. Her beauty brought her no happiness, however. When she refused to marry the man he had chosen for her, the Sultan of Mirobez had his daughter suffocated and embalmed in crystal to preserve her beauty for ever. It is said that she lies perfectly preserved in a shrine within the Royal Catacombs in Mirobez.

O
RDO
C
OSTRUO,
H
EBUSALIM, 794

Southern Kesh, on the continent of Antiopia

Zulqeda (Noveleve) 929

17
^th
month of the Moontide

Alyssa Dulayne stretched luxuriantly across the divan, cascading her blonde hair over her shoulder as she savoured the wine sliding down her throat.
War is so stressful
, she thought.
It’s good to get away from it.
She offered her empty cup to the young Hadishah girl serving her tonight, and she refilled it silently. Sadly, the girl was a blockhead with no conversation, so this would be just another boring evening in the middle of nowhere.

For three weeks her party of twenty-seven Hadishah mage-assassins had journeyed hundreds of miles on an eastward trajectory, spread over eight windcraft, one a large dhou carrying a dozen passengers, and the other seven bearing three warriors in each. Though her own people were poor company, the two prisoners had intriguing stories.

Zaqri of Metia hadn’t told his tale willingly, of course. But Alyssa could get the most unwilling man to talk without so much as touching him. She was skilled enough at Mesmerism and Illusion to leave someone so confused that they leaked their secrets without realising. Zaqri was like a pomegranate, with so many glorious seeds of truth inside him.

The Scytale of Corineus is loose in the world. The Inquisition know, and are hunting it. The Dokken know, and are just as desperate to find it, for they see it as their salvation!

The people involved intrigued her: Ramita Ankesharan, who’d been snatched from her by Justina in the first months of the Moontide. She remembered the girl, a stubborn but naïve bint – no threat then, though she’d have the gnosis now. And this Zaqri, the handsome Souldrinker with a foolish heart who was in love with Cymbellea, Justina’s daughter – there was a ballad to wring tears from the stoniest eyes! And Alaron Mercer . . . who was he – and more importantly,
where
?

Without firm news to guide her, Alyssa’s search had been slow. They’d been taking their time and stopping often to question locals and scry for their quarry. She’d heard little that was pertinent to her quest, but she could be patient, and she was certain that the Scytale would reveal itself.

Everything bends to my will eventually.

They’d commandeered a rural mansion in southern Kesh for this evening, comfortable enough by local standards. She planned to spend the time drowning a very specific regret in whatever wine was to hand.

She’d felt genuine sadness when she’d learned of the death of Antonin Meiros’ daughter Justina.
We shared so much
. They’d become the closest possible friends, two secret rebels in the close confines of the Ordo Costruo and all their sanctimonious moralising. They’d delighted in breaking taboos and offending those prissy scholars – disrupting classes, sneaking out at night to steal, trying alcohol, and learning all about what boys really wanted. No one hurt them because they were magi and could do much worse than any thug who might try to take them on. And over the years they’d laughed and cried together, shared lovers and beds – in fact, they shared everything but ambition. She could picture Justina effortlessly: the cold, brittle face she showed the world, and the softer, vulnerable woman beneath.

I miss you, my dear friend.

It saddened her that they’d parted in anger – she’d been transporting Ramita Ankesharan to confinement in Halli’kut when Justina had appeared and taken the girl.
She could have killed me, but I meant too much to her. And now she’s dead.
Alyssa wiped her eyes and took another swallow of wine.

Zaqri of Metia killed her.
Once she was sure she’d gleaned every last morsel of information from him, she was going to punish that crime.

Thinking of Justina led naturally to the other prisoner: Cymbellea di Regia, Justina’s errant daughter. She was not yet an ally, but she was softening; of that Alyssa was sure. A patient, subtle Mesmerist could turn most heads eventually; it just took time, and a starting point: something upon which to build trust. Most magi thought only in terms of battering minds into submission, but the best Mesmerists
persuaded
. They
seduced
.

Though Cym wasn’t quite ripe for seduction yet.

Rashid would make putty of her, but she’s not ready for more exotic pleasures . . . A pity . . .

Alyssa looked speculatively at the Hadishah girl serving her but immediately dismissed her as beneath notice; Tegeda was not just drab, with her dull skin and great heavy eyebrows, but she was too muscular to be feminine. She was one of the newest generation of Hadishah from the breeding-houses; her body had been shaped by a daily regime of strength-building exercises, her mind moulded into an aggressive, fanatical mentality.
Ugly ugly ugly. Girls should be pretty and feminine
. The breeding-houses were hideous places, though she conceded that Rashid was right: they needed them.

If I asked Tegeda what the best thing in life is, she’d say ‘Slaying Enemies of the Faith’ or ‘Praying’ or something equally dismal.
Alyssa shuddered.
What kind of life is that?

She drained her goblet again, wishing that Rashid was here to distract her mind and transport her body, but he was far away. Then someone knocked at the door and pulled her mind back to the present. Tegeda admitted Satravim, a young pilot-mage, one of those Alyssa had sent ahead hunting for news of their quarry. She sat up and flicked a finger to dismiss Tegeda as Satravim fell to his knees before her.

He was interesting, this one, though low-blooded; he was permanently angry at life for the hideous wounds that had ruined his face, a rage he channelled into his gnosis and his faith. She’d shown him a little kindness, enough to turn his contempt of her skin colour to something more worshipful.

‘You may rise, Satravim,’ she said, holding out a hand to him and putting on her ‘elder sister’ face. She poured him some water, he mumbled his gratitude and fell a little more in love with her. ‘You went to Ullakesh, yes?’ she said. ‘So, what did you learn?’

Moments later she was storming through the palace, rousing the sleepers and sending them into a frenzy of preparation for flight as she cried, ‘We’re going to Teshwallabad!
Ramita is in Teshwallabad!
’

*

‘Get up, Slugskin!’

A boot-toe slammed into his stomach and Zaqri was torn from a nightmare of fire and blank faces into harrowing reality – or so it seemed; since the blonde woman had begun questioning him, there was little he could trust. The most ghastly tortures could be revealed as tricks, blending with dreams of rescue, or making love to Cym – and all lies. Whole lucid conversations that felt so real he became immersed in them . . . only to discover not a word had been said. No one could be trusted; nothing could be relied upon.