Moontide 02 - The Scarlet Tides (16 page)

A bead of sweat ran down Giordano’s face. ‘What plans?’

Ramon smiled. ‘We do not reveal such things to men who are not partners of my paterfamilias.’ He met Giordano’s eyes. ‘Are you a partner?’

Regina groaned and opened her eyes. She stiffened as she registered the knife at her jugular. ‘Pater?’

Giordano bowed his head. ‘Please, release her. I grant you Liberta: no one of my family will assail you again, I swear.’ He swallowed. ‘She is my life.’

Ramon assessed the man. In a world of lies, vows had to be honoured or no business could be transacted. A man who reneged on a pledge of Liberta demonstrated that no one could ever trust him, and all of his partnerships and business contracts would be void. He dropped Regina’s periapt into her cleavage, winked at her and stood. ‘I accept your pledge of Liberta.’

He helped the girl to her feet and offered her his wine. She glared sourly at him, took a sip and spat. ‘Pater, you are unharmed?’

Giordano nodded, patting his chest. ‘I am whole.’ He indicated the seats. ‘Please, Stregone, sit once more, in friendship.’

Regina eyed Ramon with considerable wariness. He guessed that she’d had little or no formal gnostic training. ‘I trained at Turm Zauberin,’ he said, to mollify her.

Her eyes became intent. ‘Could you teach me?’

‘I leave tomorrow.’

‘Are you married?’ she asked in a businesslike voice.

He grinned. ‘I am not. But Pater Retiari will choose my bride.’

She smiled slyly. ‘You have one night left here in Pontus?’ She straightened, and pushed out her ample bosom.

‘Daughter,’ Giordano admonished.

‘He is stregone, Papa,’ Regina pouted, ‘and of our people.’ She swayed to a seat, crossed her legs and looked Ramon in the face. ‘I like him. Later we will do business of our own.’

Ramon coloured and looked at Giordano, who raised his cup. ‘To business, Signor Sensini.’

*

The following evening, Ramon, Kip and Prenton were sipping the brandy they’d been gifted by Giordano while Kip gave Prenton a lurid account of Regina’s looks, deportment and bust size. Ramon neither confirmed nor denied a thing. The idea that he might have just fathered a child was vaguely troubling, especially when he’d been half-afraid the girl was only using their ‘transaction’ as an opportunity to turn the tables on him for humiliating her. But the encounter had been fun in the end, and far more equal than the odd relationship he had had with his maid in Retia. The girl had appeared to regard sharing his bed as part of her duties, and after several weeks of refusing her, he’d finally just got on with it. There was some chance he’d sired a child on her too, no doubt as Pater Retiari intended.
Some magi have dozens of bastards
, he reminded himself.

‘So assault is a Rimoni seduction technique,’ Prenton observed drily, finishing his brandy. Then they all stiffened as Duprey’s voice carried to them. ‘The legate is back from the allotments,’ Prenton exclaimed, swiftly secreting the bottle. Ramon and Kip finished their thimbles and were hiding them in their pockets just as Duprey strode in, gesticulating towards them.

‘These are your fellow magi,’ he called over his shoulder to the six figures following in his wake. All were clad in embroidered velvet cloaks of scarlet and black. ‘Where are Coulder and Fenn? Dicing, no doubt. Prenton, Sensini, Kippenegger: on your feet!’

Prenton swept to his feet with an immaculate bow, a movement well beyond Kip, who didn’t even try. Ramon improvised: Rimoni and Silacia had been civilised longer even than the Rondians. Duprey turned back to the newcomers, who were all huddling into their hoods as if they’d really rather not be identified. The legate looked pleased, as if he’d had a good day’s fishing. ‘These are our new magi from the allotments,’ he said grandly. He indicated the tallest. ‘This is Renn Bondeau.’

Ramon stifled a groan as a surly, baby-faced young mage who’d been on his flight to Pontus emerged from beneath a hood, scowling as he took in Ramon and Kip. He flicked a half-bow, without extending a hand, but Prenton didn’t allow him to get away with this.

He seized Bondeau’s hand and pumping it enthusiastically, crying, ‘Welcome to the Thirteenth, old chap.’

Bondeau forced a smile.

Duprey turned to the second figure. ‘Our new Farseer: Severine Tiseme.’ A pretty, curvy young woman was revealed when she reluctantly lowered her hood. She too ran her eyes disdainfully over Ramon and Kip.

Baltus Prenton made a courtly bow. ‘Milady Tiseme, we are honoured.’

Severine looked at him with faint surprise and smiled. ‘Thank you,’ she said with sudden brightness. ‘Magister—?’

‘Baltus Prenton, Windmaster,’ Prenton said, with a most winning smile.

Duprey swept a hand over three figures clustered together: ‘These are Hugh Gerant, Evan Hale and Rhys Lewen of Andressea,’ he announced, not bothering to hide a slight twinge of annoyance; Andressans were notoriously fickle and troublesome. All wore their hair in long curls down their backs and affected trim moustaches and goatees and each had a bow slung over one shoulder; on the plus
side, Andressans were also renowned archers. The tallest, Gerant, grunted something unintelligible. ‘Unfortunately, none of them speak Rondian,’ Duprey noted in a resigned voice.

Prenton promptly greeted them in Andressan, eliciting a little surprise but no friendliness from the trio.

‘And finally, some excellent news,’ Duprey said, sounding utterly disbelieving of his own negotiating skills or good fortune. ‘I’ve managed to secure a
pure-blood
mage for the legion – I believe this is a sign that the Thirteenth is finally going to be given some respect.’ He raised a hand and the final mage lowered his hood slowly, revealing a pale, good-looking young man with a weak chin, swept-back blond hair and an uncertain expression. ‘Gentlemen – and lady – meet Seth Korion, the son of General Kaltus Korion himself.’

Ramon clapped a hand over his mouth to keep his laughter in.
Sol et Lune, it’s the Lesser Son!
Memories of years of bullying and abuse leapt to the fore, escaping from where he’d buried them. Malevorn Andevarion, Francis Dorobon and Seth Korion, perpetrators of his worst experiences growing up: their names were branded on his soul.
Seth Korion in a punishment legion – what the rukking Hel is going on?
Then he thought about Duke Echor being in charge of the Crusade, and he had to stop himself laughing out loud again.
Rukka mio! Has he got Kaltus digging latrines?

Seth Korion’s eyes went straight to Ramon and then away, as if he could not decide whether to pretend he didn’t know him or not.
After seven years at Turm Zauberin, you better rukking well acknowledge me
. Ramon licked his lips and found his composure. ‘Seth Korion,’ he drawled with absolute relish. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

Hadishah

I would name them animals, but they are less than that; if they are dogs, they are rabid dogs. Your precious jackals have destroyed another hospice of the Ordo Justinia, this one in Falukhabad. These are women trained in medicine and midwifery, Sultan! Every day they save the lives of your subjects, yet they are preyed upon by these killers! Why will you not protect my sisters?

S
OURCE
: J
USTINA
M
EIROS,
LETTER TO
S
ULTAN
S
ALIM
K
ABARAKHI
I
OF
K
ESH
, 907

It is the jackal that cleans the carrion from the desert. Think of these Rondians as carrion. Only the strongest in faith have the will to do what is required by nature. It is easy to mouth platitudes and make promises of shihad, but where was the sultan when Betillon was raping children in Hebusalim?

S
OURCE
: H
ADISHAH PAMPHLET
, 907

Galataz, Kesh, Antiopia
Shaban (Augeite) 928
2
^nd
month of the Moontide

‘Kazim Makani, my young pilot!’ exclaimed a vaguely familiar voice.

Kazim turned, and then his face split into his first genuine smile in months. A roughly dressed man in desert garb strode towards him, his scarred and whiskery face alight with welcome.

‘Molmar!’ He embraced the man, kissed both his cheeks. ‘Sal’Ahm!’

‘Sal’Ahm,’ Molmar responded, his eyes bright, though he frowned a little as he looked at Kazim more closely.

He can see what I am
, Kazim thought sadly.

But the Hadishah skiff-pilot hid the moment quickly. ‘Are you ready for some flying, my friend?’

Kazim found himself nodding enthusiastically. ‘I can’t wait.’

When he’d first learned that there were Keshi magi, he’d been shocked, and the breeding-houses of the Hadishah magi still sounded hideous to him. But flying in Molmar’s windskiff earlier that year had been wonderful. Soaring above the desert, seeing for miles, he’d felt free and all-powerful. It gave him hope that his own gnosis might not be a demonic power of Shaitan, but something that could be turned to good.

They were in Galataz. He, Jamil and Haroun had ridden nearly four hundred miles in the two weeks since they’d been given their assignment. Jamil was his friend, but Haroun was another matter; there was now a history of mistrust between them, but Rashid had assigned him as translator.

Jamil and Molmar greeted each other as old friends, and Haroun too: they’d all crossed Kesh together with Kazim. Then the door of the Dom al’Ahm opened again and more men entered, armed and booted, despite the strictures against weapons and shoes, that neither should be worn in a place of worship. The newcomers were led by a big scar-faced brute introduced as Gatoz. Jamil kissed Gatoz’s cheeks formally, then Gatoz turned to Kazim. No embrace was offered. ‘Kazim Makani,’ Gatoz said in a gravelly voice. ‘The emir bids me accept your presence.’

And evidently you don’t want it.
Kazim bowed stonily.

‘I pray you accept my leadership and give your all for Ahm,’ Gatoz stated.

‘Kazim is a good lad,’ Molmar stated defensively.

Gatoz met Jamil’s eyes and Kazim sensed silent communication passing between them; afterwards, Gatoz looked somewhat appeased. More introductions were made; two more magi, Talid and Yadri, both part-Dhassan. They looked like boys, younger even than Kazim himself, with fluffy little beards and fervent eyes. There were also half a dozen Hadishah, ordinary men trained to kill. They were
clearly overawed by the magi; they gave reverential bows, murmuring names Kazim quickly forgot.

The final man was a bulky, puff-cheeked Rondian in Keshi garb. He had deep green eyes, a pale, curling beard halfway down his chest and a shaven, sunburned skull. ‘This is Magister Stivor Sindon, formerly of the Ordo Costruo,’ Gatoz told them. ‘He gave allegiance to Emir Rashid years ago, when Antonin Meiros broke faith and allowed the Crusade.’

Magister Sindon ran his eyes over Kazim. ‘You’re the Souldrinker,’ he stated, his expression deeply distrustful. ‘What are your affinities, boy?’

Kazim had not got far enough into his training before he’d rebelled and refused to learn any more from Sabele. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted sullenly.

Magister Sindon raised one eyebrow, as if his impressions of the training afforded Hadishah magi had been confirmed. ‘No doubt all will be revealed in time,’ he said coolly.

Kazim felt his instant dislike deepen.
Just once I’d like to know more about what is going on than the people around me.

Molmar plucked at his sleeve. ‘Come, brother. Let’s prepare for the journey.’

*

The windskiff rose at Molmar’s gesture, topping the walls of the Dom-al’Ahm as Kazim stared about him, feeling that same rush of excitement he’d felt when he’d first flown.
Whatever my ‘affinities’ are, flying must surely be involved
, he thought.

His first flight might have been just a few months ago, but it felt like a lifetime. He’d been an occasionally devout Amteh worshipper who believed himself human, not magi, and all he’d cared about was to rescue Ramita Ankesharan and take her home. Now he had blood on his hands; he’d lost his love and gained monstrous powers instead. But as Molmar hauled on the sails and the skiff caught the winds with a thrum that shivered through his core, he felt his spirits rise.

Jamil and Haroun and two other Hadishah were aboard too. Below them rose a second skiff bearing Gatoz, Talid and Yadri and piloted
by Sindon, who flew with casual effortlessness. The city of Galataz spread beneath them, barely visible through the smoky miasma that covered it. Many had fled, seeking safety from the oncoming Crusade, but as many more remained, apparently hoping not just to survive the advent of the Rondians, but to actually profit, Jamil had told him darkly.

The second skiff rose on a summoned wind and gracefully darted past them, Gatoz waving ironically. The gesture irked Kazim. He looked about him, opening himself up slightly to the new senses the gnosis brought. He had to fight the urge to be ill, but he did it nevertheless. There was a piece of wood at the base that ran the length of the hull; it thrummed with energy. Remembering Molmar’s past lessons, he retrieved the word ‘keel’. The single mast was fixed to it, and there was a spur of wood behind the mast, which Molmar held onto. Unfocusing his eyes and extending his senses, he could see a faint blue light that ran from Molmar’s palm into the spur and down into the keel. He reached out slowly and touched the spur himself, below Molmar’s hand. He could feel the tingling power of the pilot’s gnosis and he closed his eyes and tried to share in it – to add to it.

The windskiff shuddered and their lift wavered.

Molmar said into his mind.

It came instinctively. His skin dimpled at the cool air rushing past and he breathed it in and tried to envisage himself as something that this energy would pass through. The keel shuddered again, but this time it did not falter but gained in strength. He felt them lift higher and grinned.

This was harder, for the wind was elusive and ever-changing, but Molmar clasped a hand over his and he felt the other man’s presence inside his head. In fright he tried to block him out, scared Molmar would see right into his black heart.

He flinched.
Can I believe that?
Though he felt a kinship with Molmar, he barely knew the man. All he had ever known of the gnosis had been evil, except this one thing: flight. But Molmar had been the only one of his new ‘friends’ who’d never lied to him, never tried to manipulate him – that he knew of.

<
All right
.> He opened himself up – though he couldn’t say exactly how, as he had little idea how the gnosis worked, except that it appeared to follow his will and his emotions. But that looked to have sufficed.

Kazim met Molmar’s gaze and they shared a moment of understanding. Something he’d never got from his poor blind father shone in the other man’s face and he realised that Molmar, born in some secret Hadishah breeding-house, had no more connection to family than he did.

We are kin, he and I
, he thought, and smiled.

Then Molmar pointed to the other skiff far ahead, silhouetted against the face of the moon. ‘Let’s catch them,’ he said gleefully.

Kazim remembered that mocking wave and his competitive streak rose. ‘Let’s do it,’ he cried, and the winds surged behind them, the skiff’s sail bulged and they soared faster and higher.

They didn’t quite catch Gatoz’s skiff that night, but it was fun trying, and when they landed just before dawn in a valley a few miles from the Krak di Condotiori, Kazim felt tired but more fully alive than in months.

He peered about him with interest as they were led below ground, into a series of caves, the size of which he couldn’t even begin to guess at. There were more than one hundred men within already, and rumour had it that the tunnels led all the way into the Krak itself. The network had apparently been formed in secret by magi loyal to Rashid; they had taken more than a decade to complete.

The following day, Jamil took him to a lookout point where they could gaze at the Krak, only a few miles away. Even at this distance,
its walls looked massive, the great sandstone ramparts towering above the valley beneath. Two sharp-peaked, snow-capped mountains known as The Tusks rose on either side of the mouth that was the gorge that rose towards the keep. Kazim could see a man-made lake behind the walls, with canals and a white waterfall that disgorged a torrent into the valley below. There were no houses in the valley – building there had long been forbidden by the defenders – but it was filled with refugees.

Jamil told him that the legendary fortress which guarded the pass into Javon was the wartime retreat of the Ordo Costruo. After the Javon Settlement the Bridge-Builders had decided to take an open hand in politics; they had occupied and enlarged the fortress using the gnosis until the edifice, which could already break most human assailants, became utterly impregnable to anyone without magical means. During the first two Crusades, even the Rondians had left it alone. Right now its main function appeared to be to keep refugees out of Javon. The valley below its walls was awash with tents and campfires, and the most the Ordo Costruo was prepared to do for them was to send out food, though never enough.

‘How can anyone bring down such a place?’ Kazim wondered.

Jamil smiled grimly. ‘The way all strong places fall,’ he replied. ‘By treachery.’

*

By the end of the week, even more men had funnelled into the caves, turning the hot air thick with the smell of sweat and bodily wastes and making it hard to breathe. Most were soldiers of the sultan, there to overwhelm the enemy once the defences had been breached. Their captains all looked similar, like Jamil, with paler faces than most Keshi or Hebb. They were from a limited gene-pool, the children of Rondian magi captured and forced to breed over the past century.

Gatoz was in charge, and on the designated night he led the long column through torchlit passages deep below the ground towards the Krak. Kazim, hovering nearby, heard him saying to Jamil, ‘This was an old escape route, sealed off when the Ordo Costruo took possession of the fortress. The emir’s magi have secretly reopened
the tunnels. The pro-Rondian faction remains ignorant.’ He licked his lips. ‘The nefari bastards think they are invincible. We’ll show them that there is no such thing.’

‘What is happening inside?’ Jamil asked.

‘Rashid placates them, twists them about his fingers. Tonight he will seek leadership by the vote, and if he is successful, he will gain control of the Order
bloodlessly
.’ Gatoz sounded almost offended by the word. ‘But if they resist, then he will strike, and we will strike with him.’

Kazim closed his eyes, searching his feelings. Antonin Meiros had been head of this order, and he’d been thought of by all of Antiopia as the most evil man alive. But Kazim had consumed the man’s soul, and now he knew him better than any. Meiros had not been an evil man at all. Were his Ordo Costruo any worse?

‘Do we have enough men for this?’ Jamil asked tersely.

Gatoz grunted. ‘Rashid leads the pro-shihad faction. Half the order – all the half-bloods and weaker – already follow him. The pure-blood whiteskins all follow Rene Cardien. They are stronger in power.’ He smiled sourly. ‘There will be blood, and lots of it.’ He looked straight at Kazim. ‘You are quiet, boy: do you have the stomach for this?’

Kazim felt his face colour. His courage challenged, his resolve to not use the gnosis wavered – exactly as Gatoz clearly intended. ‘Of course I do.’

*

The march underground was slow, tense and oppressive. Torches were thinly spread and they tramped in semi-darkness, the weight of the stone bowing their shoulders. Outside, it was daylight, but in here the night was eternal, and though it was barely a mile, it seemed to take forever. Then whispered orders passed ear to ear down the line, ordering silence and readiness, and most fell to their knees to pray wordlessly.

Kazim stretched his shoulders. Most of the sweating soldiers around him were poorly equipped; helms of some sort or other were prevalent, but few had armour and most held only poorly made scimitars. There were lots of them, though, so if they could be fully
deployed, the magi might be overwhelmed. But if they were bottlenecked and confronted piecemeal … it didn’t bear thinking about.

‘Stay close, brother,’ Jamil muttered in his ear. ‘We have invested much time and energy into your training. I know you do not wish to use your new powers and I respect that. But you owe the Hadishah for all we have done for you. Repay us with obedience, and swiftness of action.’