Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (47 page)

*

The parley flag came as a surprise, after weeks in which the enemy did no more than pen them in; they’d stopped bothering with even sporadic archery. But one afternoon a white flag was waved by a skinny Keshi boy trotting towards their lines: a well-dressed lad in embroidered silks and wearing a dapper red turban – a sheik’s son, maybe. He brought a message for Seth, written on white scented parchment, requesting an audience. It bore the insignia of Salim I of Kesh.

Seth found he couldn’t think straight after reading it.

General Seth Korion,

I send my greetings, and request a parley, between our lines, tomorrow.

I wish to discuss the situation of your army, and seek a resolution to this impasse.

Salim of Kesh

‘It’s not him,’ Ramon maintained. The Silacian had been very subdued for the past few days; there’d been some massive argument with Severine about Lanna Jureigh. Seth had considered weighing in, then decided not to get caught in the middle; he was disappointed in all of them.

Most of the Keshi had left the enemy camp and marched north, taking most of the royal banners with them. But there was still one large pavilion across the way, and the sultan’s personal flag flew over it. They’d decided it was worth hearing what the sultan, or more likely one of his impersonators, wanted.

The meeting was arranged for the middle ground between the armies, in a pavilion the Keshi built then abandoned so that the Rondians could inspect it before agreeing the meeting. The tent was a big, airy affair in white and gold. The Keshi had set up two low divans with a table between, laid with platters of fruit and set with wine goblets. Chaplain Gerdhart had checked earlier for poisons and hidden dangers and found all in order.

Seth Korion walked into the pavilion in trepidation. He sat, helped himself to a grape, then stood up again and paced until the flap on the opposite side of the pavilion opened and a man in his late twenties stepped through.

Seth caught his breath. ‘
Latif?
’

He had to look closer to ensure it was indeed the man they’d held prisoner in Ardijah for two months, during which time he’d become someone Seth considered a friend: someone with whom he could talk poetry and music, someone who shared his sense of humour, and who was blessed with a bewitchingly exotic face.

‘Are you sure?’ Latif smiled, embracing him, kissing his lips briefly in the Keshi way, patting the small of his back. As ever, his Rondian was perfect. ‘I have many impersonators, after all.’ He winked drolly.

Seth held him at arm’s length, drank in every detail. ‘Of course I’m sure. Though it must be confusing for your people to have Salim apparently here and also away in the north?’

Latif’s eyes twinkled. ‘News crawls here, my friend. You magi speak across the miles, but most news takes months to travel a few miles, during which time it is garbled beyond comprehension. “Salim is here, Salim is there”: this is normal. All of the impersonators speak with one voice. To all intents and purposes, we’re all Salim.’

‘I can’t imagine Emperor Constant ruling that way.’ Seth laughed. ‘Well, “Salim”, to what do I owe this pleasure?’

‘Affairs of state, I’m afraid.’ Latif waved a genial hand about the pavilion. ‘I’m sorry I cannot welcome you to my court and show you how a true ruler hosts a guest.’ He raised his eyebrows ironically, in clear reference to his own incarceration in Ardijah at Seth’s hands.

‘We were trapped in a little town – come to Bricia and I’ll show you how a Rondian noble lives!

‘Would that I could.’ Latif shrugged eloquently. ‘But we must make do, must we not? Look, here there is good wine – from Bricia! Plunder from your army at Shaliyah. It’s a vernierre, and cooled in the river upstream: you’re favourite, is it not?’

They poured goblets, clinked them together and took seats opposite each other, still exchanging small talk, with the slightest tension that came of having to leave much unsaid. The impersonator looked rested and full of energy. Seth knew that he himself didn’t: he felt ground down by the tension and cares of command.

If I were alone, I’d just lie down on this divan and close my eyes . . .

‘So, what’s this matter of state?’ he asked, sipping the cool, cleansing wine, a treat for his parched senses.

‘Well, my friend, I regret that I must request your surrender.’

‘After the battering we inflicted last time you attacked?’

‘But still you are trapped. Your food supplies are running very low, yes? And though your miraculous healers toil, disease must be a growing threat.’

All of which was very true. Seth looked away.

Latif went on in a regretful voice, ‘Very soon, in desperation, you will be forced to try and break out: ten thousand men, with attendant baggage train and camp followers, trying to break across open ground into archers who outnumber you three to one. It will be a slaughter, my friend.’

Yes, it would be, if that were our intention.

‘Seth,’ Latif went on, ‘if you surrender, we will be merciful. You and your magi will be taken as Salim’s personal prisoners: Chain-runes, of course, but not handed over to the Hadishah and their breeding-camps. Your rankers will be disarmed and imprisoned, but only until the end of the Moontide, after which they will be released into Rondian hands.’

‘And the camp followers?’

‘You must know that any woman who has sullied herself with a Rondian is not welcome anywhere. They will be sold as slaves. Such a life is not so bad, for a woman.’

Dear Kore, does he really think that?
‘That’s out of the question. Those women are wives now, and entitled to the protection of their husbands.’

‘Don’t pretend these women will be welcomed in Yuros,’ Latif retorted.

‘They won’t be enslaved.’

‘No? What is a wife but an unpaid domestic slave? What is a war-wife but a trophy? Do not try to tell me there is any true feeling between your soldiers and the women they’ve taken.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ Seth replied. ‘I was. Once I thought as you did, that between East and West there could be no love. But now I see things differently. These women had no kind of life in Ardijah: they were the downtrodden – widows, slaves, outcasts, beggars, for whom there were no better options than a foreign soldier. This isn’t unique to Khotri: there are many like them in Antiopia, and in Yuros also. Why shouldn’t they risk marrying a foreign soldier in the hope of a better life?’

Latif frowned, settled back on his divan and considered. ‘Your point is fair,’ he admitted eventually. ‘All right, what if I also guaranteed the lives and safety of those women who wish to remain with their “husbands”?’

Ah, so that threat was just leverage . . . I wish you and I didn’t have to play these games, Latif . . .

Seth sat up. ‘I’m sorry, but we’re
not
going to surrender. We’ve marched from Shaliyah through Khotri to reach our lines. We’ll not let this predicament deter us. We’ll find a way.’

‘We understand that your own army have blocked you from crossing the Tigrates?’

‘Then you heard wrong.’

They fell silent, looking at each other.

Damn this war
, Seth found himself thinking.

Latif sighed, affecting nonchalance. ‘Then if you will not see sense, at least find some relaxation for a moment. You look tired, my friend: so drink, eat! This fruit is fresh. It is the best to be had this side of the river, and you might not taste its like again for some time.’

‘I’ve lost my appetite. Though if I could take some back for my men?’

Latif gestured his assent affably. ‘Of course.’ He clapped his hands with forced cheer. ‘Well, how are you keeping? Do you still have time to read?’

‘No – well, not poetry or literature, anyway. Despatches, supply-lists, hospital reports, scouting reports. I’ve had to put pleasure aside for a while. We’re at war, after all.’ Seth thought about the stack of parchment on his desk.
I could get through some of that pile, if I return early
. Abruptly, he stood. ‘I must go.’

Latif looked taken aback. ‘My friend? Our aides have agreed a meeting of four hours at the least. What is the hurry? Let us relax and enjoy some time together. I can even send for my jitar?’

It was tempting.
I could just put all this damned stress behind me, forget about where I’m stuck and how much shit I’m in . . .
But he shook his head. ‘No. I have work to do. I’m sorry, I truly am.’

Latif began to reach out, then stopped and withdrew his hand. ‘Undoubtedly you are right.’

What’s changed?
Seth wondered.
Is it because there was no need or point in talking about the war when we were in Ardijah? Or is it because I’m not the one in control any more? Am I that shallow?

Or is it just this Kore-bedamned war?

Their farewell was perfunctory, and he walked away without looking back.

‘So,’ Ramon Sensini greeted him when he returned, ‘how is your friend the Fake?’

‘Very well. He thinks we’re helpless and doomed unless we beg for mercy.’

The Silacian smiled for the first time in several days. ‘Now, about that . . .’

Southern Kesh, on the continent of Antiopia

Moharram (Janune) 930

19
^th
month of the Moontide

Ramon took the windskiff in low, skimming the water. The craft was handling sluggishly due to the outriggers and empty kegs they’d fixed to the hull to make the craft riverworthy. They’d blackened the sails and the hull with ash, renaming her
Blackbird
as they did. Baltus Prenton wouldn’t have recognised her.

The dead Brevian was very much on Ramon’s mind, not only as this was his old craft, but because his last lover was in the prow. Jelaska Lyndrethuse had roused from her listless mourning with a new grimness, her long, morose face expressionless, her eyes remote. She was ready for action, she claimed.

Ready to kill someone, more likely.

‘Brace yourself,’ he called. ‘I’m bringing her in to land.’

He took the craft lower, dissipating Air-gnosis until the keel caught in the water, the new outriggers splashing down and carving furrows until momentum was lost. They held their breath, but the craft settled. They’d tested it, of course, but this was the real thing and they were far from Riverdown.

When it became clear the skiff wasn’t about to capsize and sink, Jelaska said, ‘Well done, Magister Sensini. What now?’

‘We visit some shady characters.’

‘I’m sure you’ll feel right at home,’ she observed.

Ramon had been hesitant about taking anyone else on this negotiation, but Seth had insisted. It meant opening up to the Argundian woman a little about the gold hidden in the legion’s baggage carts, though he’d kept the details light. He wasn’t sure how much she believed him.

Their destination was downstream a little, and though he was unused to sailing on water, the dull gleam of the town’s lamps soon appeared. Yazqheed was a small river-port between Vida and Peroz that hadn’t been on any of their maps. And they hadn’t known about the Keshi river-traders, either – apparently even the Sultan of Kesh was unaware of this enterprising group of men. Ramon had found both a week ago, thanks to Silvio Anturo’s guidance.

In both Yuros and Antiopia, the rivers, unlike the oceans, played a vital role in travel and commerce, both goods and people. The tidal movements were nowhere near as extreme and deadly as the ocean’s, so the rivers and canals were both much safer and more predictable. Riverboat fleets in the West probably transported more in a month in Yuros than the windfleets did in a year. In Antiopia, which had no real windfleet, the waterways were even more important.

When Duke Echor’s southern army marched into southern Kesh, they’d seized and garrisoned the major river-ports like Vida, but the Keshi rivermen, anticipating this move, had gone to earth in the smaller ports to wait out the Crusade. It kept their ships safe, though it meant two years without proper income.

So I’m sure there’ll be a few who’d like a little side-job . . .

He sent a gnostic pulse ahead to alert Silvio. Involving the Petrossi mage had helped cement the trust between them; they were now actively collaborating.

Sailing on water was quite different to flying, but Ramon got them to the edge of the massive flotilla on the east bank of the Tigrates. Most of the riverboats were bobbing at anchor, for the docks were too small to cope with this many vessels. The bigger ships were wedged together so closely you could walk from one to the next with little difficulty. There were hundreds of small tiller-craft at the fringes, for running errands up and down the river. His own vessel was one of many sailing after dark. The sultan’s soldiers might hold the township, but the port of Yazqheed was ruled by the rivermen.

Silvio called.

Ramon steered for the bobbing lantern while Jelaska scanned for trouble, listening in on the surface thoughts of any minds that focused on them. Her eyes were glinting with pale light, but she didn’t look overly perturbed.

He took the skiff into the shadow of the lantern-boat and looked up.

‘Sensini?’ The mage appeared at the rails above. Ramon recognised him from their scrying: a narrow, well-formed face framed by long curling hair. His mother, Isabella Petrossi’s sister, had been a famed beauty. ‘Who’s with you?’ Silvio demanded. ‘You’re supposed to be alone.’

‘Buona notte, Silvio. Relax! This is Jelaska Lyndrethuse.’

Anturo looked taken aback, but recovered well. ‘An honour, Lady.’

Jelaska smiled as sweetly as her face allowed. ‘The pleasure is mine, Master Anturo. Or it will be, if you can give me a way to disembark from this damned tub.’

‘Please, call me Silvio. Come, climb aboard. Your skiff will be safe here, I promise you. The captains await us.’