The Second Empire (24 page)

Finally Aurungzeb broke the stillness. “Go on, Shahr Johor.”

The young Merduk khedive picked up a dry quill and began pointing at the unrolled map. Depicted upon it in some detail was the region between the Torrin river and the southern Thurians. Once a fertile and peaceful land, it had become the cockpit for the entire western war.

“The main army will advance in a body, here, down the line of the Western Road. In it will be the
Minhraib
, the
Hraibadar
, our new arquebusier regiments, the elephants, artillery and siege train—some hundred thousand men all told. This force will pitch into any enemy body it meets, and pin it. At the same time, the
Ferinai
and our mounted pistoleers, plus the remnants of the Nalbenic horse-archers—twenty-five thousand men in all—will set off to the north and advance separately.”

“That second force you mention is entirely cavalry,” Aurungzeb pointed out.

“Yes, Majesty. They must be completely mobile, and swift-moving. Their mission is twofold. Firstly, they will protect the northern flank of the main body, in case the red horsemen and their allies are still at large in that area. If this proves to be unnecessary—and I believe it will—they will wait until the main body has engaged the Torunnan army, and then come down upon the enemy flank or rear. They will be the hammer to our anvil.”

“Why do you believe this enemy force in the north is no longer in the field?”

“They freed a large quantity of female captives that our troops had rounded up. I am certain they will escort these back to the Torunnan capital. It was, I believe, only due to the presence of these captives that any of Khedive Arzamir’s army escaped intact at all.”

“Hammer and anvil,” Aurungzeb murmured. “I like it.”

“It’s how he caught the Nalbeni in the Torunn battle,” one of the other officers said, an older man with a scarred face.

“Who?”

“This Torunnan general, Majesty. He halted them with arquebusiers and then threw his cavalry at their flanks. Decimated them. If it worked against troops as fleet as horse-archers I’ll wager it will against Torunnan infantry.”

“I am glad to see we are learning lessons from the behaviour of the enemy,” Aurungzeb said wryly, but his brow was thunderous. “Very well. Shahr Johor, when will the army move out?”

“Within two weeks, Majesty.”

“What if this vaunted general of theirs does not come out to meet us, but stands siege in Torunn? What then?”

“He will come out, my Sultan. It is in his nature. It is said he lost his wife in Aekir, and it has taught him to hate us. All his strategies, even the defensive ones, are based on the tactical offencive. These scarlet-armoured cavalry of his excel in it. He will come out.”

“I hope you are right. We would win a siege, no doubt of that, but then the war would drag through the summer, perhaps later. The
Minhraib
must be returned to Ostrabar in time for the harvest.”

“By harvest time, Your Majesty, you shall be using the throne of Torunna as a footstool. I stake my life upon it.”

“You have, Shahr Johor—believe me, you have. This is very well. I like this plan. The Torunnan army numbers no more than thirty thousand. If we can pin them down in the open and launch the
Ferinai
into their rear, I cannot see how they will survive. If Batak’s magicks do not put paid to him first, I shall have this Torunnan general in a capture-yoke. I will walk him to Orkhan, where he will be crucified.” Aurungzeb chuckled. “Having said that, if he meets his fate upon the field of battle, I shall not be unduly displeased.”

A rustle of laughter flitted about the room.

“That will do for now. You will all leave, but for Mehr Jirah and his urgent errand. Ahara, my sweet, seat yourself. Shahr Baraz, are you a complete boor? Find my Queen a chair.”

The Merduk officers filed out, bowing in turn to Aurungzeb and Ahara. The door clicked shut behind them.

“Well, Mehr Jirah. What is so urgent that you must enter an indaba unannounced and, though I am not one to prate about protocol, why is my Queen at your side?”

“Forgive me, Sultan. But when something momentous occurs which impinges upon the very faith of our people and the manner of their belief, then I deem it necessary to bring it to your attention at once.”

“You intrigue and alarm me. Go on.”

“You recall the Ramusian monk who has come to us from Torunn?”

“That madman. What about him?”

“Sultan, I believe he is not mad.” Mehr Jirah’s face grew stern and he rose to his full height as though bracing himself. “I believe he speaks the truth.”

Aurungzeb blinked. “What? What are you telling me?”

“I have been conducting researches in our archives for the last two months, and I have had access—which you so graciously granted—to all the documents that were saved from the ecclesiastical and historical sections of the Library of Gadorian Hagus in Aekir. They tally with a tradition that my own
Hraib
hold to be true. In short, the Prophet Ahrimuz, blest be his name, came to us out of the west, and it now seems certain that he was none other than the western Saint Ramusio—”

“Mehr Jirah!”

“Sultan, the Saint and the Prophet are the same person. Our religion and that of the westerners are products of one mind, worshipping the same God and venerating the same man as His emissary.”

Aurungzeb’s swarthy face had gone pale. “Mehr Jirah, you are mistaken,” he barked hoarsely. “The idea is absurd.”

“I wish it were, truly. This knowledge has shaken me to the very core. The monk whom we deemed a madman is in fact a scholar of profound learning, and a man of great faith. He did not come to us out of a whim—he came to tell us the truth, and he bore with him the copy of an ancient document which confirms it, having fled with it from Charibon itself. The Ramusian Church has suppressed this knowledge for centuries, but God has seen fit to pass it on to us.”

There was a pause. Finally Aurungzeb spoke, unwillingly it seemed.

“Ahara, what part have you in this?”

“I acted as interpreter for Mehr Jirah in his conversations with the monk Albrec, my lord. I am able to confirm what Mehr Jirah says.”

“Do you not think, Sultan,” the mullah continued, “that it is a strange twist of fate which has brought a western queen and a Ramusian scholar to you at this time? I see the hand of God at work. His word has been corrupted and hidden for long enough. Now is the time to finally let it see the light of day.”

Aurungzeb’s eyes flashed. He began pacing about the room like a restless bear. “This is all a trick—some ruse of the Ramusians to divide us and mislead us in the very hour of our final victory. My Queen: she was once a Ramusian. I can see how she was taken in, wishing to reconcile the faith of her past and the true faith which she has had the fortune to be reborn into. But you, Mehr Jirah: you are a holy man, a man of learning and shrewdness. How can you bring yourself to believe such lies? Such a blasphemous falsehood?”

“I know the truth when I hear it,” Mehr Jirah retorted icily. “I am not a fool, nor yet some manner of wishful thinker. I have spent my life pondering the words of the Prophet and reviling the teachings of the western imposter-saint. Imagine my shock when I look more closely at these teachings, and find in some cases the same phrases uttered by Ramusio and Ahrimuz, blest be his name, the same parables… even the mannerisms of the two men are the same! If this is a Ramusian trick, then it is one that was conceived centuries ago. Besides, the Ramusian texts I studied antedated the arrivall of our own Prophet. Ahrimuz was there! Before he ever crossed the Jafrar and taught the Merduk peoples, he was there, in Normannia, and he was a westerner. His name, my Sultan, was Ramusio.”

Aurungzeb was manageing to look both frightened and furious at the same time.

“Who else knows of this discovery of yours?”

“I have taken the liberty of gathering together the mullahs of several of the closest
Hraib
. They agree with me—albeit reluctantly. Our concern now is in what manner we should disseminate this knowledge amongst the tribes and sultanates.”

“All this was done without my knowledge. On whose authority—?”

Mehr Jirah thumped a fist on the table, making the map of Torunna quiver. “I am not answerable to you or anyone else on this earth for my actions or the dictates of my conscience! I am answerable to God alone. We do not ask your permission to do what we know to be right, Sultan. We are merely keeping you informed. We will not sit on the truth, as the Ramusians have for the past five centuries. Their current version of their faith is a stench in the very nostrils of God. Would you genuinely have me commit the same blasphemy?”

Aurungzeb seemed to shrink. He pulled himself up a chair and sat down heavily. “This will affect the outlook of the army—you realise that. Some of the
Minhraib
are unwilling to fight as it is. If it gets out that the Ramusians are some kind of—of co-religionists, why then—”

“I prefer to think of them as brothers in faith,” Mehr Jirah interrupted grimly. “According to the Prophet, it is a heinous crime to attack one whose beliefs are the same as one’s own. Eventually, Sultan, we may have to see the Ramusians as such. They may be riven with discord, but they revere the same Prophet as we do.”

“Belief in the same God has not stopped men from killing one another. It never will. Take a close look at your brothers in faith, Mehr Jirah. They are busy cutting one another’s throats as we speak. In Hebrion and Astarac—and even Torunna—they have been fighting civil wars incessantly, even while we hammer at their eastern frontier.”

“I am not näıve, Sultan. I know the war cannot be halted in its tracks. But all I ask is that when the time comes to make peace—as it will—you keep in your mind what you have been told here.”

“I will do so, Mehr Jirah. You have my word on it. When we have taken Torunn I will be merciful. There will be no sack, I assure you.”

Mehr Jirah looked long and hard at his Sultan for several tense seconds, and then bowed. “I can ask no more. And now, with your permission, I will leave.”

“Are you intent on disseminating this news amongst the troops, Mehr Jirah?”

“Not quite yet. There are many points of doctrine which remain to be clarified. I would ask you one favour though, my Sultan.”

“Ask away.”

“I would like the Ramusian monk released into my custody. I tyre of skulking around this fortress’s dungeons.”

“By all means, Mehr Jirah. You shall have your little maniac if you please. Tell Akran I said he was to be freed. Now you may leave me. Shahr Baraz, you also.”

“Sultan, my lady—”

“Can do without her shadow for five minutes. Escort Mehr Jirah out, will you? Your mistress will be with you presently.”

Mehr Jirah and Shahr Baraz both bowed, and departed. Heria had risen to her feet when Aurungzeb held up a hand. “No, please my dear. Sit down. There is no ceremony between Sultan and Queen when they are alone together.”

As she resumed her seat he padded close until he hulked above her like a hill. He was smiling. Then one hairy-knuckled hand swooped down and ripped off her veil. The fingers grasped her jaw, their pressure pursing up her lips like a rose. When Aurungzeb spoke it was in a low, soft purr, like that of a murmuring lover.

“If you ever, ever do anything like this again behind my back, I will have you sent to a field brothel. Do you understand me, Ahara?”

She nodded dumbly.

“You are my Queen, but only because you have my son in your belly. You will be treated with respect because of him, and because of me—but that is all. Do not think that your beauty, intoxicating though it is, will ever make a fool of me. Do I make myself clear? Am I transparent enough for you?”

Again, the silent nod.

“Very good.” He kissed the bloodred lips. As his hand released her face it flushed pink, save for the white fingermarks.

“You will come to my bed tonight. You may be with child, but there are ways and means around that. Now put on your veil and return to your chambers.”

W HEN Heria had returned to her suite in the austere old tower she let her maids disrobe her, sitting passively upon her dressing stool like a sculpture. Her evening robes donned, she dismissed them and sat alone for a long time, utterly still. At last there was a knock at the door.

“My lady,” Shahr Baraz said. “Are you all right?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, and then said calmly, “Do come in, Shahr Baraz.”

The old Merduk looked concerned. “His displeasure is like a gale of wind, lady. Soon over, soon forgotten. Do not let it trouble you.”

She smiled at that. “What do you think of Mehr Jirah’s findings?”

“I am surprised no-one else has noticed such things in the five centuries Merduk and Ramusian have co-existed.”

“Perhaps they have. Perhaps the knowledge was always buried again. It will not be this time, though.”

“Lady, I am not sure if you wish to set us all at each other’s throats, or if you are genuinely crusading for the truth. Frankly, it worries me.”

“I want the war to end. Is that so bad? I want no more men killed or women raped or children orphaned. If that is treason then I am a traitor to the very marrow of my bones.”

“The Ramusians also do their share of killing,” Shahr Baraz said wryly.

“Which is why the monk Albrec must be released and allowed to return to Torunn. They are sitting on this information there as they would like to do here.”

“Men will always kill each other.”

“I know. But they at least can stop pretending to do it in the name of God.”

“There is that, I suppose. I would say this to you though: do not push Aurungzeb too far.”

“I thought he was a gale of wind.”

“He is, when he is crossed in what he thinks is a small thing, but he did not become Sultan by sitting on his hands. If anything threatens the foundation of his power, he will annihilate it without regret or remorse.”

“Including me?”

“Including you.”

“Thank you for your frankness, Shahr Baraz. It’s strange. Since coming to live amongst the Merduks I have met more honest men than I ever did in my life before. There is you, Mehr Jirah, and the monk, Albrec.”

“Three men are not so many. Were folk so dishonest in Aekir, then?” Shahr Baraz asked with a smile.

Her face clouded. She looked away.

“I’m sorry, lady. I did not mean to—”

“It’s nothing. Nothing at all. I will get used to it in time. People can grow accustomed to all manner of things.”

There was a pause. “I will be outside the door if you need me for anything, lady,” Shahr Baraz said at last. He bowed and left the room, when what he wanted to do was take her in his arms. As he resumed his post outside her door he scourged himself for his weakness, his absurdity. She was too fine to be a Merduk broodmare, and yet he thought there could be a core of pure steel behind those lovely eyes. That fellow she had loved in Aekir, who had been her husband: he must have been a man indeed. She deserved no less.

SIXTEEN

B ARDOLIN squatted on the stone floor and rubbed his wrists thoughtfully. The sores had dried up and healed in a matter of moments. The only evidence of his suffering that remained were the silver scars on his skin. He felt his shaven chin and chuckled with wonder.

“My God, I am a man again.”

“You were never anything else,” Golophin said shortly from his chair by the fire. Have yourself some wine, Bard. But go easy. Your stomach will not be used to it.”

Bardolin straightened and rose from the floor with some difficulty, grimacing. “I’m not yet used to standing upright, either. It’s been three months since I was able to stretch my limbs. God, my throat is as dry as sand. I have not talked so much in a year, Golophin. It is good to get it all out at last. It helps the healing. Even your magicks cannot restore me wholly in a moment.”

“And your magicks, Bardolin: what of them? You should have recovered from the loss of your familiar by now. What about your own Disciplines? Are they still there, or has the change stifled them?”

Bardolin said nothing. He sipped his wine carefully and eyed the pile of junk at one side of the circular tower room. His chains lay there, with his blood and filth still encrusted upon them. And the splintered fragments of the crate they had transported him here within. Six brawny longshoremen terrified out of their wits as the thing within the crate roared and snarled at them and beat against the walls of its wooden prison. They had tumbled the crate off the end of their waggon and then urged the frightened horses into a gallop, fleeing the lonely tower with all the speed they could whip out of the beasts.

“It comes and goes without any reason or rhyme,” he said finally. “As every day passes it grows more uncontrollable. The wolf, I mean.”

“That will pass. In time you and the beast will mesh together more fully, and you will be able to change form at will. I have seen it before.”

“I’m glad one of us is an expert,” Bardolin said tartly.

Golophin studied his friend and former pupil for a while in silence. He had become a gaunt shade of a man, the bones of his face standing out under the skin, his eyes sunk in deep orbits, the flesh around them dark as the skin of a grape. His head had been shaven down to the scalp to rid him of the vermin which infested it, and it gave him the air of a sinister convict. The wholesome, hale-looking soldier-mage Golophin had once known seemed to have fled without a trace.

“You touched my mind once,” the old mage said quietly. “I was scanning the west on the chance I might find some trace of you, and I heard you cry out for help.”

Bardolin stared into the fire. “We were at sea, I think. I felt you. But then he came along and broke the connection.”

“He is a remarkable man, if man is indeed the word.”

“I don’t know what he is, Golophin. Something new, as I am. His immortality has something to do with the black change, as has his power. I am beginning to fathom it all. Here in the Old World we always thought that a shifter could not master any of the other six Disciplines—the beast disrupted some necessary harmony in the soul. But now I think differently. The beast, once mastered, can lead one to the most intimate understanding of the Dweomer possible. A shifter is in essence a conjured animal, a creature owing its existence entirely to some force outside the normal laws of the universe. When a man becomes a lycanthrope, he becomes, if you like, a thing of pure magic, and if he has the will then it is all there waiting for him. All that power.”

“You almost sound as though you accept your fate.”

“Hawkwood brought me here thinking you could cure me. We both know you cannot. And perhaps I do not want to be cured any more. Golophin, have you thought of that? This Aruan is incredibly powerful. I could be too. All I need is time, time to think and research.”

“This tower and everything in it is at your disposal, Bard, you know that.”

“Thank you.”

“But I have one question. When you unlock this reservoir of power, if you ever do, what will you do with it? Aruan is intent on establishing himself in the Old World, perhaps not tomorrow or this month or even this year, but soon. He intends some kind of sorcerous hegemony. He’s been working towards it for centuries, from what you tell me. When that day comes, then it will be the ordinary kings and soldiers of the world versus him and his kind. Our kind. Where do the lines get drawn?”

Bardolin would not look at him. “I don’t know. He has a point, don’t you think? For centuries we’ve been persecuted, tortured, murdered because of the gift we were born with. It is time it was stopped. The Dweomer-folk have a right to live in peace.”

“I agree. But starting a war is not the way to secure that right. It will make the ordinary folk of the world more fearful of us than ever.”

“It is time the ordinary folk of the world were made to regret their blind bigotry,” Bardolin snarled, and there was such genuine menace in his voice that Golophin, startled, could think of nothing more to say.

H AWKWOOD had not ridden a horse for longer than he could remember. Luckily, the animal he had hired seemed to know more about it than he did. He bumped along in a state of weary discomfort, his destination visible as a grey finger of stone shimmering in the spring haze above the hills to the north. There was another rider on the road ahead, a woman by the looks of things. Her mount was lame. Even as he watched, she dismounted and began inspecting its hooves one by one. He drew level and reined in, some battered old remnant of courtesy surfacing.

“Can I help?”

The woman was well-dressed, a tall, plain girl in her late twenties with a long nose and a wondrous head of fiery hair that caught the sunshine.

“I doubt it,” and she went back to examining her horse.

His appearance was against him, Hawkwood knew. Though he had bathed and changed and suffered a haircut at the hands of Donna Ponera, Galliardo’s formidable wife, he still looked like some spruced-up vagabond.

“Have you far to go?” he tried again.

“He’s thrown a shoe. God’s blood. Is there a smithy hereabouts?”

“I don’t know. Where are you heading for?”

The girl straightened. “Not far. Yonder tower.” She gave Hawkwood a swift, unimpressed appraisal. “I have a pistol. You’ll find easier pickings elsewhere.”

Hawkwood laughed. “I’ll bet I would. It so happens I also am going to the tower. You know the Mage Golophin then?”

“Perhaps.” She looked him over with more curiosity now. He liked the frankness of her stare, the strength he saw in her features. Not much beauty there, in the conventional sense, but definite character. “My name is Hawkwood,” he said.

“I am Isolla.” She seemed relieved when her name elicited no reaction from him. “I suppose we may as well travell the rest of the way together. It’s not so far. Is Golophin expecting you?”

“Yes. And you?”

A slight hesitation. “Yes. You may as well dismount, instead of staring down at me.”

“You can ride my horse if you like.”

“No. I only ride sidesaddle anyway.”

So she was well-born. He could have guessed that from her clothes. Her accent intrigued him, though. It was of Astarac.

“You know Golophin well?” he asked her as they walked side by side leading their mounts.

“Well enough. And you?”

“Only by reputation. He is looking after a sick friend of mine.”

“Are you all right? You have a strange gait.”

“I have not ridden a horse in a long time. Or walked upon solid earth for that matter.”

“What, do you possess wings that take you everywhere?”

“No, a ship. She put in only this morning.”

He saw a light dawn in her eyes. She looked him up and down again, this time with some wonder. “Richard Hawkwood the mariner—of course! I am a dunce. Your name is all over the city.”

“The very same.” He waited for her to give some fuller account of herself, but in vain. They strolled together companionably enough after that, the miles flitting by with little more conversation. For some reason Hawkwood was almost disappointed when they finally knocked on the door of Golophin’s tower. There was something about this Isolla that finally made him feel as though he had come home.

I’ve been at sea too long, he told himself.

“C URIOSITY,” Golophin said, annoyed. “In a man it is a virtue, leading to enlightenment. In a woman it is a vice, leading to mischief.” He looked at Isolla disapprovingly, but she seemed unabashed.

“That’s a saying dreamt up by a man. I am not some gossiping lady’s maid, Golophin.”

“You should not be behaving like one then. Ah, Captain Hawkwood, I thank you for delivering our princess safe and sound, since she was pig-headed enough to come out here.”

“Princess?” Hawkwood asked her. Some absurd little hope died within him.

“It’s not important,” she said uncomfortably.

“You are looking at the next Queen of Hebrion, no less,” Golophin said. “As if the world needed another queen. Make yourself useful, Isolla. Pour us some wine. There’s a jug of it cooling in the study.”

She left the room, undismayed by the old wizard’s disapproval. And indeed, as soon as she had left the room a smile spread across his face.

“She should have been a man,” he said with obvious affection.

Hawkwood disagreed, but kept his opinion to himself.

“So, Captain, we meet at last. I am glad you came.”

“Where’s Bardolin?”

“Asleep. It will speed his healing.”

“Is he… has he—?”

“The beast is dormant for now. I have been able to help him control it.”

“You can cure him, then?”

“No. No-one can. But I can help him manage it. He has been telling me of your voyage. A veritable nightmare.”

“Yes. It was.”

“Not many could have survived it.”

Hawkwood went to the window. It looked out from the tower’s great height over southern Hebrion, the land green and serene under the sun, the sea a sparkle on the horizon.

“I think we were meant to survive it—Bardolin was anyway. They allowed us to escape. I sometimes wonder if they even guided our course on the voyage home. Bardolin told you of them, I suppose. A race of monstrosities. He thinks some of them are in Normannia already, and more are coming. They have plans for us, the wizards of the west.”

“Well, we are forewarned at least—thanks to you. What are your own plans now, Captain?”

The question took Hawkwood by surprise. “I hadn’t thought about it. Lord, I’ve only been back on dry land a day. So much has happened. My wife died in Abrusio, my house is gone. All I have left is my ship, and she is in a sorry state. I suppose I was thinking of going to the King, to see if he had anything for me.” He realised how that sounded, and flushed.

“You have earned something, that much is true,” Golophin reassured him gently. “I am sure Abeleyn will not be remiss in recognising that. Your expedition may have been a failure, but it has also been a valuable source of information. Tell me, what think you of Lord Murad?”

“He’s unhinged. Oh, not in a foaming-at-the-mouth kind of way, but something has gone awry in his head. It was the west that did it.”

“And the girl-shifter, Griella.”

“Bardolin told you of that? Yes, perhaps. That was a queer thing. He felt something for her, and she for him, but it harmed them both.”

Isolla came back with pewter mugs of chilled wine. “Your Majesty,” Hawkwood said as he took his, eyes dancing.

She frowned. “Not yet.”

“Not for several weeks.” Golophin grinned. “I think she grows impatient.”

“With you, yes. Sometimes you are like a little boy, Golophin.”

“Is that so? Abeleyn always thought of me as an old woman. I am a man for all seasons it seems.”

Hawkwood dragged his gaze away from Isolla and set aside his tankard after the merest sip. “I’ll be going. I just wanted to make sure all was well with Bardolin.”