Moontide 02 - The Scarlet Tides (35 page)

Lucia stared. She clearly wished to contact him directly, but this mode of communication restricted that option. She was compelled to speak aloud, before witnesses. He of course had the same restriction. But there were other ways to communicate.

He pulled out a gold coin, showed it to her, then pocketed it again.

Her eyes went round.

Message received: I have your precious, utterly embarrassing daughter.

‘Magister,’ Lucia said slowly. ‘You may have a point.’

Octa looked as if she’d just been forced to drink urine. ‘Lucia, I …’ Her voice trailed away as the image of the Living Saint turned to her, her very serenity of visage a threat. ‘We are always happy to receive Magister Gyle’s advice. We shall consider it.’

‘Do,’ Lucia told her. ‘He is usually worth listening to.’ She glanced sideways at him. ‘And watching.’

Gyle became aware that Olivia and Francis were staring at him with something like hero-worship in their eyes. But their mother’s eyes could have immolated him. He pressed home his advantage. ‘Holiness, it is normal in any allied kingdom to appoint an Imperial Envoy until more formal arrangements are in place. Though I am not of the Imperial bureaucracy, I have experience of local conditions. I believe that I would make an excellent Imperial Envoy until Francis is crowned.’

Octa swallowed and her cheeks went scarlet, but when Lucia nodded shortly, she was forced to swallow her rage. She swept up her goblet and drained it furiously, then crushed it and dropped it to the floor.

‘Magister, there is none better placed,
at present
,’ Lucia said slowly. ‘And I will consider the marriage question further. There may be something in what you say.’

Francis and Olivia’s mouth flopped open. Gyle could scarcely contain his own amusement at their expressions.
Yes, I won. Take note, children
. ‘I hear and understand, Holiness.’

‘Do you? Listen to me, Gurvon Gyle. I will appoint you as Imperial Envoy until Francis is crowned. I will then allow him to give you whatever title he sees fit. And I will send you the gold you crave.’ Her face flashed malevolently. ‘You will send me two persons, one who was yours, and one who was mine. Meet my expectations, and all will be well between us. Fail to deliver, and frankly, I will tear down Hel to find you.’

He bowed his head.
Elena and Coin
. So be it.

The meeting ended without formalities. Lucia snapped ‘Octa,’ at the Dorobon matriarch and vanished. The silence she left was a living, palpable thing. Francis and his sister were staring back and forth between Octa, the tyrant who ruled their existence, and him.

Yes, I just faced down the most powerful person on Urte. No one is as almighty as they like you to think.

He bowed to Octa, to Francis. ‘My lady Dorobon, my lord: I bid you good night.’

Brochena, Javon, Antiopia
(Rami) Septinon 928
3
^rd
month of the Moontide

Something had changed on the journey south. At first Cera had been treated as a prisoner, but a few days north of Brochena, her status changed and she suddenly became something more like a guest. She could not go anywhere, but she and Tarita were given a better pavilion, and improved food and wine.

Entering the city was an awful experience. The populace were cowed by the Rondian legions led by magi on horned construct-steeds
or hovering above in skiffs. The Nesti Councillors had already fled to Forensa, together with their remaining allies and troops, but the common people were tied to their homes and work-places. They came out onto the streets to watch the hated Dorobon enter. The womenfolk who’d lost men in the slaughter of the Jhafi at Fishil Wadi wailed and tore at their hair, wrenching out whole tresses in their grief. Public mourning was a tradition here, a collective madness that could easily get out of hand. Tarita told Cera about mourning women setting themselves alight with lamp-oil, or publicly slashing their own wrists. Cera dreaded what they might do if they stormed her carriage, so she kept her windows closed as they wound through the sullen, disbelieving crowds, peering through the cracks in the shutters.

To her further surprise, she was given rooms in the palace, the lesser quarters she’d occupied as a child. Francis Dorobon now had the royal suite, of course, and his mother and sister the one next door. Her nearest neighbour in the palace was Portia Tolidi. They let her keep Tarita, through Gyle’s intervention. Gyle had evidently been rewarded: everyone was calling him ‘Imperial Envoy’ now, and he was ordering the stiff-backed Dorobon nobles around with sardonic condescension. New battle-lines were being drawn in an elaborate game she couldn’t grasp.

The defeat at Fishil Wadi was now a month ago, and she feared that she’d sold her soul for nothing. The days passed and only Gyle had any time for her. They made her eat at the high table, but no one spoke to her. She clung to small hopes: Gyle had intimated that he held Timori, not the Dorobon. He still spoke of her becoming Francis Dorobon’s bride to stave off any thought of a mass uprising, but it felt increasingly unlikely. She could not go out, and Gyle had used his gnosis to seal the secret passages shut. Meanwhile Francis bedded Portia, and boasted of it at table.

That night was yet another feast. Tarita had put her into a pleasing enough dress, and now she sat alone, watching the room. It was a celebration: Francis Dorobon had received the pledges of the leading citizens of Brochena: mostly merchants, and of course the
bureaucracy led by Don Francesco Perdonello. The aristocratic face of the chief civil servant showed no emotion as he renounced fealty to the Nesti and swore to the Dorobon. He’d not looked at her. She knew he was doing what anyone would do, just trying to survive, but right then, she hated him.

Now all was laughter and gorging on good food and wine. She toyed with her meal, sickened beyond eating.

‘Princessa, may I join you?’ asked a cool voice in Rimoni.

She turned her head find Portia Tolidi standing over her.
Come to gloat, have you?
Her mood blackened, but she could not risk a scene when so many here despised her. ‘I cannot prevent it.’

Portia tilted her head, causing a ripple of gorgeous red-gold hair to catch the torchlight. ‘Of course you can. With a word. I have no desire to torment you.’ Her voice was deeper than most women and sounded very sophisticated to Cera. She bit her lip in jealousy.

She helped Tarita survive the massacre last year
, she reminded herself.
She may not be all bad.
‘Then sit, for the sake of my maid.’

Portia’s mouth softened a fraction. She sat gracefully. ‘Grazie, Princessa. How is Tarita?’

Tarita, who was your brother’s lover
. ‘She is as well as can be.’ She met Portia’s eyes cautiously. ‘She has great anger and sorrow.’

‘And so do I.’

‘Excuse me if I do not see that. All I see is one doing well for herself by her collaboration with an invader.’

Portia didn’t grow angry and leave as she’d hoped she might. Instead she flinched, as though ashamed. ‘Do not think that all the Gorgio wanted the Dorobon to return,’ she said in a soft voice. ‘And anyway, is not “collaboration” also your intention?’

‘It was never
my
intention.’

‘Then Magister Gyle’s,’ Portia responded. ‘He praises you to Francis. It angers Octa.’

That made her heart go cold. Octa Dorobon frightened her. ‘Then he must stop speaking well of me.’

‘He should, if he values you,’ Portia agreed. She leant forward. ‘Have you heard his latest proposal? He has told Francis that under
the constitution of Javon, a king may take multiple wives – a harem, like the Amteh do.’ She made the Sol-sign against blasphemy. ‘The constitution allows it, he says, for in theory, a Javon king must be Amteh as well.’

Cera swallowed.
A harem? Gyle is insane
. ‘Is this true?’

‘Don Perdonello’s lawyers say it is. Gyle tells Francis that taking a wife from each of the important families will tie them to him, especially once he fathers children on them.’

Cera tried to see if Portia felt threatened by this, but she couldn’t tell. Her perfect heart-shaped face was devoid of emotion, so much so that it suddenly occurred to her that Portia might be no more willing to bed Francis Dorobon than she was. Though in Portia’s case, he was already rukking her nightly. ‘How do you feel about it?’

Portia’s eye’s narrowed faintly and flickered about the hall. They were tired, those eyes, as if she slept poorly. Tarita said Francis rode her for hours at a time. Cera also scanned the room; no one was watching them that she could see. Octa and her daughter were staring sourly at Gyle, who was in the midst of some anecdote that had the knights about Francis howling with laughter. Even Alfredo Gorgio was laughing despite himself. ‘Francis is an overgrown child with a cruel mind,’ Portia murmured. ‘You are lucky that your Jhafi looks repel him.’

Perhaps I am. But Gyle wants me to marry him …
And Portia’s attitude of sympathy puzzled her; the Gorgio were noted for their disdain of the native Jhafi. But Portia sounded compassionate.
And she aided Tarita
, she reminded herself again: a little Jhafi maid whom her beloved brother was bedding. ‘Francis seems besotted by you,’ she noted.

‘He likes sticking his dildus in me, that is all,’ Portia replied crudely. ‘Apart from that he has no regard for anything I say or do.’ She looked at Cera sideways. ‘So, Cera Nesti: do you think that it is possible for us to be friends?’

Friends?
‘I will be dead soon. One way or the other. What is the point?’

‘If you were truly going to kill yourself, you’d have found a way by now. Me too. I think we are both survivors.’

Cera studied the other woman. Portia was almost five years older than she was, and far more beautiful. Her pale skin was radiant, her nose small and delicate, faintly freckled by the sun, her mouth a rosebud. She had hazel eyes and bewitching hair. She was dauntingly lovely. If Portia was a survivor, it could not have been an arduous task. But she respected the offer. ‘We shall have to see, I think.’

‘Who knows, we may end up as sister-wives,’ Portia said softly. ‘Don’t tell anyone I told you.’ She winked, then rose and glided back to Francis’ side. He stood and wrapped his arm about her, which forced all the other guests to stand also. Cera reluctantly joined them.

‘It’s to bed!’ Francis shouted, showing off his lovely consort. ‘May you all have as lively a time of it as I!’

She looked for reluctance, for a sign of distress, on the face of Portia, but saw none. Only desire filled her beautiful face as she clung to the young ruler.

One way or the other, she is a fine actress.

*

Gurvon Gyle pulled his eye from the spy-hole, tiring of the sight of Francis Dorobon’s ample buttocks as they humped up and down between Portia Tolidi’s perfectly formed, spread-eagled legs. There would be no more conversation worth overhearing tonight. But the idea he’d set in motion had hooked the young man, that was clear. He’d spoken of it to Portia again; he was smugly taken with the idea of a harem dedicated entirely to his own gratification. What Portia Tolidi thought, he couldn’t tell. She appeared to have no personality at all.

He nudged Hesta, who was using the other spy-hole a foot away.

The Lantric witch half-smiled.

He closed his spy-hole.

Hesta tutted softly.

Hesta licked her lips with a wry grin.

He looked at her sternly.

The Lantric witch grinned slyly.

She pulled a reflective face.

he chuckled.

He slipped away into the darkened passages, emerging a minute later into his own room on the lower floor. He went to the one lamp and lengthened the wick so that the room brightened. He could almost feel the palace settling in for the night. The Matriarch would be in the chapel, praying to Kore. Olivia would be eating supper. Cera was under the eye of a female Dorobon mage he’d co-opted, an arrogant but capable young quarter-blood called Madeline Parlow.

He pulled out a relay-stave from his wardrobe, gripped it and sent his mind questing out into the night, calling cautiously into the aether. A darkly beautiful male face appeared in his vision almost immediately: Rashid Mubarak, Emir of Halli’kut. His mental touch was like perfumed silk.

Rashid sounded amused.

His concern sounded anything but genuine.

Rashid gave him a crooked smile that promised nothing.

The emir’s mental demeanour changed subtly.

Rashid paused, frowning. He bared his teeth momentarily, then nodded.