Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (59 page)

It’s a damned good question
, Gyle thought,
although I’m not sure I’d ask it myself.

‘The Keepers decide on whom the Ascendancy is bestowed, not I,’ Lucia replied, clearly wanting the subject closed. The Keepers – the mysterious group of surviving Ascendants – answered to no one, not even the emperor. They had no other role in society except to guard and preserve the Scytale.

‘Don’t give us that shit,’ Betillon snapped. ‘If we’re going to conquer all of Urte for my Lord Emperor, the Ascendancy is the least we deserve!’ He looked around the table, but only Korion was showing open support. His face changed as it finally dawned on him that he might have overstepped.

Gurvon glanced at Belonius Vult, who had a strange look on his face, as if he knew something pertinent.

I must ask him what he knows later
.

Lucia’s voice was brittle. ‘I’m sure that if we’re successful, the Keepers will consider us all closely.’

‘I want to hear that from one of them,’ Betillon declared, but Korion touched his arm warningly.

Lucia eyeballed Betillon unflinchingly. ‘Enough, Tomas. The Keepers stand apart. It’s not my decision.’

The tension remained for a few moments, then Betillon sat back, grumbling under his breath. Gurvon was watching Lucia’s eyes.
There’s something she’s concealing about this matter
,
he thought,
and I think
Betillon just earned himself a knife in the back when the time is right.

‘Mother, we’re due in chapel soon,’ Constant interjected. ‘Are we finished here?’

‘Yes, we are,’ Lucia replied firmly, as the men facing her gave up the matter of the Ascendancy and relaxed. ‘Gentlemen, thank you for your time. In particular I wish to thank Governor Vult and Magister Gyle. We now have a stratagem: no victory can be won without one. Let the thanks of the emperor be recorded.’

Betillon, Korion, and Dubrayle made perfunctory murmurs while Naxius smiled benevolently. Constant just looked like he badly needed to pee.

Everyone stood as servants entered with fresh wine. Betillon and Korion were locked in immediate conversation. Wurther hobbled off in the opposite direction to Naxius and Dubrayle, while Constant scuttled out. Lucia glided over to join the two Noromen. Vult bent over her hand reverently, and Gurvon made his best courtier’s bow.

‘Gentlemen, we are all very impressed,’ Lucia told them. ‘Kaltus, Tomas and the others may not act like it, but if they weren’t in full support, your plan would have been ripped up. You men are so competitive,’ she scolded, as if all of womankind were a sisterhood of mutual support.

‘We’re proud to serve the House of Sacrecour,’ Vult smarmed.

‘And we’re very grateful to you both. So is my son.’

‘He’s fortunate to have your guidance,’ Gurvon said tactfully, not adding,
Without you he’d last about three minutes.

Lucia smiled gracefully, with just the hint of knowingness. ‘The Rimoni Emperors used to have a slave whose role was to murmur “hominem te memento” in their ears once an hour:
Remember that you are only a man
. The first mage-Emperor abolished the custom, of course, because we are now more than men. I sometimes think that we should reinstate it.’

‘Needless, when our emperor has you, Gracious Lady,’ Vult replied, which was undoubtedly meant as a compliment, but Gurvon found other meanings in his words. Lucia caught his eye; so had she. It was strangely chilling, to share a moment of understanding and intimacy with the most frightening woman on Urte.

I think Corinea herself would run if she saw Lucia Sacrecour coming,
he thought, followed immediately and inexplicably by
the thought,
I wonder what it would be like to bed her.

She looked at him sideways, the faintest hint of a knowing glance, then a dismissive smile.

I guess I’ll never know.

‘So, gentlemen,’ she said, disengaging from them coolly. ‘You know I’m something of a Diviner, and it came to me unbidden during the meeting today that in three years time, when the Moontide is over, those of us who see this through will be enshrined as leaders of a New Era. One empire, spanning the whole of Urte.’

Gurvon accepted a goblet from a servant with a tray. ‘I’ll drink to that, Holiness.’ He did, savouring the taste and the soothing jolt of the alcohol.
I needed that.

‘Look around you,’ Lucia said. ‘Those you see in this room are the men you will rule Urte with . . . and my son, of course,’ she added as if in afterthought. ‘Cultivate them, for they will be your peers.’ She nodded farewell, her eyes locking with Gurvon’s one last time.

He bowed wordlessly.

When she was gone, he and Belonius exhaled wordlessly, then clinked goblets.

Belonius raised the toast. ‘Gurvon, we Diviners believe that the unbidden vision is more trustworthy than a planned seeing. I believe she’s right: in three years time, we will all be immortal.’

22

A Minor Setback

Sorcery: Divination

Can I see the future? Of course: I can see thousands of futures! It’s trying to pick the right one that drives you to drink!

C
YRILLA
S
ETTERBERG,
A
RGUNDIAN
D
IVINER AND
B
REWER, 866

Near Forensa, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia

Safar (Febreux) 930

20
^th
month of the Moontide

Gurvon Gyle was in a reflective mood, thinking about Belonius Vult and his parting toast that day in Pallas, almost three years ago, when they’d presented their plan.
So you thought you’d be immortal, Belonius . . .

Vult had been hated by many and loved by none. Though his plan really was coming to fruition, he himself was gone, beyond praise or blame – Gurvon had learned of his death some time ago, with little sadness.

Of more moment now were Mater-Imperia Lucia’s final, silent words that evening:
Magister Gyle, Betillon will suffer for his impertinence. Mark the moment when it comes and learn.
It made him wonder just how powerful a Diviner Lucia was, because here they were, he and Betillon, three days after the battle for Forensa, and Betillon’s pleas for reinforcements were falling on fallow ground. Lucia’s revenge had begun.

Gurvon’s camp was six miles east of Riban. He was with the remnants of Hans Frikter’s Argundians, but there was no word of Hans himself, and only six of his eighteen battle-magi had got out alive after Elena’s allies had turned up and focused on the mercenary magi with deadly precision. According to his spies, the Dorobon legion, now stationed somewhere to the north of Riban, was in even worse shape. Sir Roland Heale still led them, but they’d left half their number behind, dead or captured. The Harkun who’d taken part in the attack on Forensa had retreated with them, professing loyalty, but they’d been raiding Jhafi villages for food, leaving slaughter in their wake.

What a rukking mess.

To salvage the situation, he’d burned out a dozen relay-staves calling in favours all over the kingdom. So it was no surprise when the alarm sounded and a Rondian warbird appeared low in the west. He’d known it was coming for hours, but as it settled in the air above, furling sails and dropping anchor, an Argundian muttered aloud, ‘If that had been here four days ago, maybe we wouldn’t’ve been nailed.’

‘Betillon didn’t think we’d need it here,’ Gurvon told the man, so that at least some of the blame for Forensa would be cast Betillon’s way.

Though I know they’re all blaming me.

He could scarcely deny that it was he who’d convinced Hans that there’d be easy pickings. But somehow Elena had engineered their defeat, and the Argundian commander was missing.

I wouldn’t trust me either. But setbacks happen; it’s how you recover that marks you out as a winner or a loser . . .

He closed his ears to their grumbling and went to greet the warbird as it landed, sagging onto the landing stanchions which extended like a spider’s legs beneath the hull. A pair of escorting Kirkegarde knights mounted on venators landed alongside, the giant reptiles hissing and snapping at the watching men.

Tomas Betillon’s grizzled face appeared above the hull of the windship, his eyes narrowing to slits. It was their first meeting since the débâcle: Gurvon had run out of relay-staves and Betillon had made no effort to contact him. The Butcher of Knebb levitated from the windship’s decks to the ground and strode towards Gurvon, his fingers curled into fists.

‘Well met, my Lord Governor!’ Gurvon called heartily, silently adding,

Betillon did make an effort though, waving a casual salute towards the Argundians before grudgingly shaking Gurvon’s hand. He dropped his voice. ‘How did you lose this, Gyle?’

‘Please, come to the pavilion for refreshment, my Lord. The officers are waiting,’ Gurvon replied aloud, then adding softly, ‘We’ll talk frankly away from the rankers.’

‘You bet we fucking will,’ Betillon whispered, allowing himself to be drawn to the command pavilion. Frikter’s magi were inside, along with Gurvon’s own people – Rutt Sordell of course, and now also Sylas, Brossian, Drexel and Veritia, all newly arrived, plus seven apprentices waiting out the back. They were all who were left of his senior Grey Foxes, recalled from missions in Yuros to shore up things here. Staria Canestos was with him too, and Leopollo, her adopted son and presumptive heir.

Betillon had brought his own seconds; Grandmaster Lann Wilfort of the Kirkegarde, with six of his knights, and a brutal-looking Pallacian called Kinnaught who was his spymaster. The introductions were terse, they swilled some ale – there was no wine – and then the servants were sent away.

Betillon cut loose. ‘You failed us, Gyle – this is all your fault! You’re the so-called mastermind, so how in Hel did they blindside you?’

‘Because the inexplicable happened,’ Gurvon retorted, matching Betillon’s tones. ‘Ordo Costruo who were supposedly dead or prisoners of the Hadishah turned up to fight in Javon! Who could predict that?’ He jabbed a finger at Kinnaught. ‘
Your
man didn’t fucking know either! Kore Himself couldn’t have known!’

‘So you say,’ Betillon shouted, ‘but Elena Anborn bloody well did!’

‘And I don’t know how!’

‘Do you not?’

‘
No!
She’s my
enemy
! To say otherwise –
when she is ruining me
– is ridiculous!’

‘Is it?’ Betillon drew a piece of parchment from his coat. ‘I have an Imperial Warrant for your arrest, Gyle, authorised by Emperor Constant himself.’ He gestured, and the blades came out on his side of the pavilion. ‘The emperor thinks you’ve become superfluous to this war.’

Gurvon’s people also drew steel, but no one was advancing on either side. He took heart from that. ‘You know I’m not superfluous here, Tomas,’ he replied. ‘If we don’t work together, we’ll fall separately. Forensa has shown that! I presume that warrant is Constant’s idea, because Lucia wouldn’t do something so stupid.’

Betillon put the warrant down and picked up a cup of ale. ‘Yes, it’s Constant’s order. He’s the emperor and it’s my duty to carry it out.’ He shrugged. ‘For the record: I’d have done it months ago.’

‘If we fight, the only people who win are Elena and the Nesti.’

‘Who said anything about a fight? I’m going to
execute
you, and any who try to protect you.’

Gurvon cast a glance either side of him. He didn’t know the seven Kirkegarde, apart from Wilfort, but it was a fair bet their Grandmaster owned their souls. At his back, he could trust Sylas, Drexel, Veritia, Sordell and Brossian, but he had considerable doubts about Staria and Leopollo – and who knew whether Frikter’s men would stand with him? Twelve against eight, ostensibly, but the better fighters were undoubtedly on Betillon’s side of the tent.

If anyone’s double-dealing me here, this is going to be a mess, and I’ll be in the middle of it . . .

‘You should rip up that warrant, Tomas. We can’t afford this disunity.’

‘I wholly agree,’ Betillon drawled. ‘Look at us: two Yurosian armies divided by
your
ambitions. Remove you and the whole situation becomes crystal-clear: we become a united Imperial army with a Noorie revolt to crush.’

Gurvon took a deep breath. ‘Last chance to back down, Tomas,’ he said firmly, but when the other man made no reply, he went on. ‘I am sure you’re familiar with Mystic Writing, Tomas – the opening up of one’s mind so that another may write through you? An hour ago I had Veritia link minds with Mater-Imperia Lucia herself.’ He took a rolled-up piece of paper from his sleeve. ‘Here’s what the Living Saint wrote. It’s a warrant for
your
arrest, authorised by Mater-Imperia herself.’ He unrolled the warrant and laid it over Betillon’s. ‘I believe this trumps yours.’

Betillon’s eyes bulged as he looked down. ‘A trick! This is a forgery – there’s no seal! Prove it’s real!’

‘That’s been done already. Those who needed to know have already been contacted by Lucia herself.’ He gave a small nod to the man behind Betillon’s shoulder and Grandmaster Wilfort plunged his blade into the back of Betillon’s left thigh, where the shielding was weak.

The Governor of Hebusalim bellowed in shock as he staggered and clutched at the table. Another Kirkegarde man, to show his enthusiasm, hacked at Betillon’s arm, cleaving through the shielding wards and breaking it at the elbow. The Butcher of Knebb fell onto his side, curling up like a child, trying to cover his vital organs as blood splattered the carpets.