Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (9 page)

‘But the mines . . .’ Wilfort rubbed his scar, which ran from his right eye to the remaining stump of his ear. ‘They provide this wasteland with all its iron.’

‘Irrelevant for now: it’s food the Crusade needs. We’ve got to take the Krak in the south or Kaltus’ legions are going to starve.’

Wilfort whistled softly. ‘The Krak di Condotiori . . . defended by a mercenary legion . . . I’d call that nigh on impregnable.’

‘Not from the north. The Krak’s main defences face south.’ Betillon scratched his crotch and thought about the skinny Jhafi girl tied up in his suite. Was she scared enough yet? She’d be ripening nicely, but he could let her stew a little longer.

Or maybe not . .
. The stench of the bodies was becoming unpleasant and he began to rise when a familiar gnostic contact nudged against his awareness. He fed the link, and shuffled into the shade of a wall, away from prying ears.

Gurvon Gyle sounded tense, as well he might.

Tomas rocked back on his heels, momentarily discomforted. Gyle had supposedly been Anborn’s captive, but perhaps they were colluding – they had been lovers, after all . . . perhaps they still were.

Gyle snapped, unusually brittle.

This sounded ever more far-fetched.

Gyle
faked
Cera Nesti’s death?
Betillon almost laughed.
Sweet Kore, the man spins in strange circles!
But even if this was true and not some ruse to divert his attention, he was unmoved.

—
>

over-
estimate it. Listen to me, Gyle. You’ve run out of friends. Lucia might have liked your plan, but she’s lost patience with you. Get out of the nursery while you can: the grown-ups are here now, and your toys are about to be crushed.>

Gyle retorted
.

He broke the connection with a savage burst of energy, vindictively burning out Gyle’s relay-stave.
I hope I seared your fingers, you arsehole
.

He re-ran the conversation in his head, then shrugged.
I’m not going to jump at his behest
. He doubted there was any windship; more likely it was some trick. Gyle was right about their relative strength, though, and that troubled him. He needed more men.
Perhaps I need to woo that damned Tolidi bint in Hytel after all . . .

He waved offhandedly at Wilfort. ‘Finish this,’ he growled, gesturing to the line of men still waiting to be executed. He surveyed the crowds below: skinny, unwashed Jhafi, staring up at the scaffolding bearing the broken prisoners, their faces sickly and frightened.
Look and learn, mudskins.

He waved his personal aide forward. Mikals, a portly Hollenian, shared his taste for young flesh. ‘Let’s go and see about the afternoon’s entertainment. Have you had her washed?’

‘She’s had her Noorie stink rinsed off, my lord. I left Pendris to oil her.’ Mikals rubbed his hands together. ‘A feisty bint, this one. She should be entertaining.’

They strode together through the palace, past the Kirkegarde sentries at each door, reaching the inner bailey just as a skinny Jhafi boy wearing the Betillon livery skittered out. He glanced after the boy, a little puzzled to see a native in his livery, but Mikals was talking, describing a furnace he’d found, perfect for disposing of the girl’s body after they’d done with her.

‘Pendris better not have done more than oiled her,’ he growled, clapping Mikals on the shoulder. ‘I want first flower – she is a virgin, I trust?’

‘Not this one, Lord,’ Mikals replied. ‘Well used, I deem – everyone knows Noorie women can’t keep their legs together. But even so, she is young and nubile enough to please you.’

His anticipation soured a little. ‘I suppose a virgin was too much to hope for,’ he acknowledged. This one had caught his eye during the capture of Mustaq al’Madhi – she’d put up quite a fight, and that would make her conquest all the sweeter. They climbed the stairs to the royal suite, to the room he’d set aside for his pleasure. He paused at the door, grinned at Mikals and pushed open the door.

A river of blood flowed down the middle of the floor. Its wellspring was young Pendris’ throat, which had been laid open ear to ear. The young man was lying on his back in the blood, naked and paling as he bled out. Untied ropes were turning scarlet, soaking up the blood. The girl was gone.

Betillon clenched his fists, suppressing the urge to immediately immolate this whole tableau. Mikals blanched and fell against the wall: the unlucky Pendris was his only son. Slowly his hand raised, pointing at something scrawled in blood on the wall.

ALHANI.

Betillon growled. ‘What is that word? Is it her name?’

Mikals shook his head. ‘No. Her name was Tarita.’

‘Then what does “Alhani” mean?’

‘It doesn’t mean anything . . .’ He paused, his face almost as white as his son’s. ‘Well, except . . . I’ve heard that the Jhafi called Elena Anborn “Alhana”, so maybe “Alhani” would be like a plural of that? Or a collective noun, maybe?’

Betillon stared.
Fuck! Has Elena Anborn been here?

Then he remembered the skinny boy in his own livery, going the other way unchecked, because of course the guards only questioned those entering. He hammered his fist into the wall.

Alhani . . .

‘Bring the rest of the women from al’Madhi’s house,’ he ordered. ‘And the chief torturer. I want to know all there is to know about this
Tarita
.’

4

Broken Bridges

The Leviathan Bridge

Symbols are powerful things. They inspire us all, which is another reason why we must build this bridge: not just to facilitate trade and understanding and improve the lives of millions, though those benefits are clear. This bridge will become a symbol, a link between East and West, tangible proof that two continents which once were joined may be so again, to the benefit of all. This Bridge will be a sign of hope, of better days to come. Bridges link us, allowing us to bypass obstacles and reach places we otherwise could not go. Let this one be the greatest of all.

A
NTONIN
M
EIROS,
C
ONSTRUCTION
P
ROPOSAL
IV
,
P
ONTUS, 702

Near Vida, Southern Kesh, on the continent of Antiopia

Rami (Septinon) 929

15
^th
month of the Moontide

Getting out of Shaliyah had been a desperate situation, and so too breaking into Ardijah. But this camp could be the worst of all, because getting out might require fighting their own people, and Ramon Sensini wasn’t sure the Lost Legions were ready for that.

They’d marched into the East for many reasons, these rankers from Noros and Argundy and the other provinces of the Rondian Empire: some because they truly believed that Kore had commanded them to fight the infidel; some for loyalty to the empire, or to their liege-lord. But for most, the motivations were more prosaic. Unless you were a mage or a merchant, life in Yuros offered little more than a plough or a pick, scratching a living from the earth, with nothing to look forward to but a mug of ale at the end of the day. The Crusades offered a chance to get out of the endless cycle of poverty. And no one cared much about the rights and wrongs; they just wanted to return to their farms and villages alive and with as much coin as they could scrounge.

Ramon’s own motives were more complex: he’d been born to a serving girl who’d been raped by a Rondian mage. His mother, barely thirteen when she gave birth, had been taken in by the head of the Retia familioso in Silacia – not that there’d been any kindness in the deed, only Pater-Retiari’s desire to secure control of a mage-child. As Ramon grew older and harder to manage, the threat of violence against his mother had kept him in line. Revenge was what motivated Ramon, against both true and adopted fathers, and freedom for his mother: these needs underpinned everything he did.

He’d entered this Crusade with a plan. Trying to get twelve thousand legionaries safely home had never been part of that, and yet here he was – along with thirty wagon-loads of gold he’d acquired along the way. All carefully concealed, of course.

How in Hel can I get us all across that damned river?

‘Any ideas?’ Seth Korion muttered quietly as they surveyed the Tigrates. The river was one of the main arteries of northern Antiopia, and over a mile wide. On the opposite bank, shimmering like a mirage, was a dark mass of stone: the fortress-town of Vida, which presided over the one bridge for hundreds of miles – except there was no bridge now, only the stumps of the support pillars, blackened by fire. The rainy season was a month past but the waters were still in spate, making the Tigrates an impassable barrier to a force without boats or windships.

Ramon had left the birthing bed of his first child and ridden four hours through the desert to be here, on the banks of the river. It was pre-dawn, the eastern glow behind him heralding another scorching day to come.

‘I just got here,’ he grumped at Korion.
Try thinking for yourself
, he didn’t add. Seth was no strategist or tactician, and it was Ramon himself who’d practically forced him into being the titular head of their small force. He could hardly complain about the tool he’d chosen to use.

At least the Korion name still had power. Ramon was amazed at the sanguine reaction of the soldiers to this latest setback. They’d escaped Shaliyah and been penned in Ardijah and still they held together, with calm belief that those in charge would find a way back. At least part of that was the power of that magical word
Korion
. Since Shaliyah, Seth had added his own deeds to the lustre of his father’s illustrious career: the rankers believed in him too, now.

This could break their hearts, though.

‘Have we any word from the other side?’ he asked.

‘Nothing – it’s like they don’t want to acknowledge we’re even here.’ Seth was blond and handsome enough, in a weak-chinned way, though his face was hardening, starting to slough away its youth. Ramon had known him for years – they’d both been educated at Turm Zauberin, the Norostein Arcanum. They’d loathed each other then, but a better person was emerging from the sulky, uncertain boy Seth had been.

War surely does change people . . . Hel, look at me: I’m a father now . . .

As if sensing the drift of his thoughts, Seth said, ‘By the way, Sensini, congratulations. I’m told it’s a girl?’

‘Julietta,’ Ramon replied. ‘It’s a Rimoni name, but it’s common in Rondelmar too.’

‘A good compromise,’ Seth approved. ‘Severine is well?’

‘She’s complaining about everything, and wants her mother.’

Severine Tiseme: the last person Ramon would have thought would be his lover, let alone have a child with. Severine was a highborn Rondian of Pallas, and as preening, self-absorbed, prissy and arrogant as that background implied. Even her rebellious spirit had manifested itself in ways typical of such circles: culminating in disgrace for penning snide poetry against the Sacrecours. But though that was the limit of her rebelliousness, her loathing for injustice and slavery was honest and passionate. Such idealism was odd to Ramon, a pragmatist of shifting morality, but he liked it in her; he felt like a better person when he was with her. Well, some of the time anyway. She was no saint, and neither was he; daughter or no, he had no idea if their relationship would survive the Moontide.

‘It sounds like she’s recovering fast, then,’ Seth remarked, smiling. But he sobered as he stared across the dark waters. ‘I’m thinking of sending Prenton across in the skiff at dawn to find out what’s going on.’

Ramon considered that. He was convinced that the massacre of the Second Army at Shaliyah had not been a fluke but a carefully planned sacrifice by Emperor Constant: to the emperor, Duke Echor of Argundy, the commander of the Southern Army, had been a bigger threat than the Sultan of Kesh. There was too much evidence that the Keshi had been lying in wait at Shaliyah for months preparing their defences, and that suggested collusion to him: Shaliyah had been a victory for both Emperor Constant
and
Sultan Salim.