Moontide 02 - The Scarlet Tides (4 page)

Alaron was a young man of middling height and light build, though he was gradually filling out. Thick reddish hair framed a face that was slowly losing its boyish uncertainty, a firm jaw and cheekbones emerging from beneath the puppy-fat. He was clad in travelling gear, with a sword at his side. He had been failed as a mage, banned from practising the gnosis, but an amber periapt was tucked inside his shirt nevertheless. He hadn’t failed through incompetence but because of corruption, and this would no longer deter him. He would be what he was meant to be; let the authorities stop him if they could.

To his left stood Pars Logan, a veteran of the Revolt; he’d organised the funeral. His shoulders were stooped now, and his spine curved, and the wind lifted what was left of his fine grey hair, but he stood as straight as he could. He’d known Tesla Anborn since the First Crusade, when she’d lost her eyes and a little of her sanity, but loyalty was everything to men like him.

On Alaron’s right was Ramon Sensini. His small, thin frame was planted solidly, his lean, dark features and stoic expression older than his eighteen years. Ramon was Silacian, his mage-blood the result of his tavern-girl mother’s rape. Despite his ignoble birth he was richly dressed. After graduating from the Arcanum, he had returned to his home village, and as the only mage there, he had prospered. His graduation had been conditional on his serving in the Crusade and now he was dressed in the scarlet and black of a Rondian battle-mage. He was off to join his legion that very day.

The only other man present was a Kore priest, a non-mage cleric barely older than Alaron. He looked bored as he ran through the rites, but he was watching every movement hawkishly. No doubt he had someone to report to; the death of a mage was always noteworthy news to someone.

The burning grounds of Lower Town were on the shores of Lake
Tucerle, where most of the poor spread their ashes, but Tesla’s would be interred in the Anborn family vault, behind the family manor out in the countryside. Alaron could not stay, but Pars had promised to lay her to rest there himself.

As the sun came up, the pyre collapsed in on itself and the skeleton that was emerging from the raging flames fell into the midst of the blaze, sending heat rolling off in waves.

As Alaron choked back a sob, his shoulders shaking, Ramon put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Amici, my windship leaves in an hour. I need to be on it,’ he said in a gentle voice, devoid of the lively wit that normally coloured his words.

Alaron nodded. He felt hollowed out, but at the same time, he felt readier than he ever had to face whatever life threw at him next. His mother was dead and his father was hundreds of miles away. The girl he’d loved had broken his heart, then stolen the greatest treasure in the world. His best friend was about to go to war, and the Inquisition were on their way – and yet, despite all this, he felt oddly prepared. ‘I understand. I just need a moment longer.’ He faced Ramon and hugged him to him. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered as tears continued to roll from his eyes.

‘Take care of yourself, amici. And give Cym a good spanking when you catch up with her,’ Ramon added with a twitch of his mouth. ‘Who knows, she might enjoy it.’

‘I wish you were coming with me.’

‘Me too, amici, but I’ll be dead if I don’t go to the legion.’ Not only was Ramon’s adopted paterfamilias the head of a dreaded Silacian familioso; he also had Ramon’s mother in his hands. He had insisted Ramon go on Crusade, and Ramon had no choice but to obey.

They hugged a final time, made promises about contacting each other and then the Silacian hurried away, leaving Alaron to stare glassily into the cremation fire as the wind rolled across the lake, flattening the waves.

The glow was dying down and the sun rising above the mountains surrounding the wide sloping valley when Jeris Muhren joined him. The Watch Captain cut a heroic figure, even dressed for the road. His
stallion snorted impatiently as he dismounted and strode to Alaron’s side and the other horse tethered to the rails sidled nervously. Alaron’s horse was smaller, thinner and far less impressive; they were a mirror of their masters.

Muhren made a Kore-genuflection to the pyre, his face solemn. ‘She was a good woman,’ he observed. ‘A true-hearted daughter of Noros.’

‘Da mostly brought me up on his own,’ Alaron replied. ‘Ma was just this … scary thing.’ He wiped at his eyes. ‘She found it hard to love.’ His throat caught. ‘So did I,’ he admitted.

‘What she endured would have marred anyone. That she retained her dignity and morality is a tribute to her, and to Vann. Few men would have given her the love and support he did, for so little in return.’ Muhren put a hand on his shoulder. ‘They both had my utmost respect. I thought of Vann as a brother. He was immense during the Revolt, despite worrying constantly for you and Tesla at home.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘Indeed, I hoped to be his brother in truth by marrying Tesla’s sister, your Aunt Elena. However, my feelings were not returned.’

Alaron wanted to ask more, but for now it could wait. ‘We should go,’ he said. ‘If you’ve done all you have to?’ They both knew what he meant.

Muhren nodded grimly. ‘It’s done. The alarm won’t be raised until we’ve left the city, provided we leave within the hour.’

Belonius Vult is dead
. Alaron thought about that.
The Traitor of Lukhazan, finally given what he deserved.
He couldn’t help a hard smile forming at the thought.
Let the bells ring out.

After one final silent farewell he turned his back on the pyre, hugged the old soldier and then went to his horse. The stallion was nipping at it belligerently, but Muhren curbed its aggression with a word. They swung easily into the saddles and the warm westerly wind tousled their hair as they turned to face it.

‘We’ll leave by Hurring Gate,’ Muhren said, fixing his cloak-clasp.

Alaron nodded, but his mind was already questing ahead, returning to the question that had been plaguing him for the last three days.
Where are you, Cym?

They were well into the countryside, trotting through woodland fringing the golden wheat-fields that sprawled beneath the foothills of the Alps, when behind them arose a distant clamour: the bells of the city greeting the death of its most hated son.

*

Two days later, a windship rode the air currents towards Bekontor Hill, Norostein’s windport. Dozens of windships of all shapes and sizes were tethered amongst the forest of platforms and towers, while beneath them hundreds of porters serviced the mass of wagons and carts hauling goods and people to and fro.

The vessel that swept up the valley that afternoon was a rare visitor. Its timbers were shaped as much for artistry as functionality and decorated with ornamental carvings; the sails were tasselled, and emblazoned banners displayed the Sacred Heart, bright sigil of the Church’s darkest sons. The Inquisition had arrived.

The windshipmen were common sailors, and they were careful to avoid disturbing their white-robed passengers, who were gathered in the forecastle. The three-decker had lavish quarters below, but today everyone was on deck to see Norostein reveal itself below. Beyond the city the eternal snow of the Alpine peaks glistened in the afternoon sun.

The ten Inquisitors were all magi of Pallas: eight men and two women armoured in steel chainmail beneath fur-lined cloaks. The Sacred Heart glowed in red and gold on their chests. Straight swords hung from their left hips. Their leather gauntlets and boots gleamed. Collectively they were a Fist: one Commandant and nine Acolytes.

This Fist had an additional member, appointed to advise this particular mission. The Kore Crozier was an effeminate-looking man with a mane of curling black hair and full lips. As the vessel approached its landing site, he deigned to speak to one of the Acolytes. ‘This must be a kind of homecoming for you, Brother Malevorn.’

‘Yes, my lord Crozier,’ Malevorn Andevarion replied respectfully. ‘I spent seven years in this pit.’

The other man snorted softly. ‘You did not come to love it then?’ He was known as Adamus; though he had forsaken his family name
on taking the title, the tradition that was observed to the letter was also subtly ignored. Everyone knew Adamus Crozier was related to the Sacrecours.

‘I am Palacian,’ Malevorn said proudly. ‘My family is pure-blood. Even the nobility of this dung-heap are only half-bloods. If it wasn’t for my uncle’s posting to the occupation force, I’d have been educated in Pallas, as I’d expected.’ The fall of the Andevarions, whose patriarch, Malevorn’s father, had committed suicide in disgrace after his legions had been annihilated by Noros rebels during the Revolt, was a humiliation that drove Malevorn every second of every day.

The Crozier nodded sympathetically. ‘You had some company, I understand? Kaltus Korion’s son, and the Dorobon heir?’

‘My lord is well-informed,’ Malevorn replied. He could feel the way the Crozier watched him, and had been regarding him ever since he’d been assigned to his squad. He knew his own looks: he was handsome in a way that made him seem older, with a fine-chiselled, rakish face and voluminous dark hair. He knew the way his sensuous smile could make a girl wet. Some men were just as susceptible, and rumour had it this Crozier was one such.

The Crozier smiled indulgently. ‘I like to take an interest in the most promising of our brethren.’

Malevorn gave a small bow of acknowledgement, and saw his fellow Acolytes glaring enviously. None of them had yet managed to exchange pleasantries with the Crozier. He saw their eyes flicker from the Crozier to himself, saw conclusions drawn.

The first of you to suggest what you’re thinking is going to regret it
, he promised them all.

‘Did you meet Governor Vult?’ Adamus Crozier asked.

‘I did, my lord. At my graduation – and socially, from time to time.’

‘Society?’ The Fist Commandant, Inquisitor Lanfyr Vordan, sniffed. ‘Is there such a thing here?’

‘I was asking Acolyte Malevorn about the governor,’ Adamus Crozier observed mildly. Inquisitor Vordan flushed and fell silent, but Malevorn kept his amusement hidden. When this mission was over, the Crozier would go home and Vordan would still be there.

‘The governor was not popular with his people, my lord,’ Malevorn told Adamus.

‘Traitors seldom are,’ Adamus replied, a lilt of humour in his voice. ‘I too have met him, in Pallas last year. He has a high opinion of himself.’

Malevorn smiled dutifully. ‘So it is said, my lord.’

He knew little of their mission, but there was plenty of gossip among the Fist. He glanced at them, neatly arrayed in their little factions: Brothers Jonas and Seldon stood with dark and sour Sister Raine. All three were half-bloods, illegitimate children of pure-bloods with a talent for theology and connivance. Raine was screwing Vordan, a sound career move, or so she seemed to imagine.

The older men were above all that: Brothers Dranid and Alain were grey-haired veterans whose youthful urges had been purged by years of self-flagellation and prayer. Malevorn envied their skill, but found them utterly boring company.

Then there was Brother Dominic, who was born to follow. He’d latched onto Malevorn immediately, like a puppy seeking a master. He was a competent enough mage and warrior, but he had no head for conspiracy and he knew that made him vulnerable, so he invariably sought a protector, the most alpha of the group. Malevorn, despite his youth, was that person.

Finally, his eye strayed to Brother Filius and Sister Virgina, the fanatics. Every Fist seemed to have them: people who believed utterly in the Kore and its right to dismember, torture and pillage for its own good. Filius was a dull, balding young man with snake-eyes and Malevorn couldn’t stand him, but Virgina was another matter. She’d taken that name when she’d joined the Inquisition, ostentatiously vowing to remain chaste in the service of Kore. Such vows were rare – magi bloodlines were valuable – but it was her right. She was a pure-blood like Filius, Dranid and Malevorn and used her gnosis with vicious efficiency, and she knew her way around a sword. Her face was that of an angel; her hair was a halo of gold, but her single-minded devotion drained all femininity from her. Something perverse in Malevorn wished to ruin her vow,
though not from desire. He just resented perfection that wasn’t his own.

Inquisitor Vordan made an abrupt gesture with his thumb, dismissing Malevorn peremptorily. ‘We must discuss the mission, my lord,’ he said to Adamus, who made a small, almost apologetic duck of the head and allowed Vordan to draw him away.

Dominic accosted Malevorn immediately. ‘What did he say, Mal? Did he say why we’re here?’ Dominic was from the country, near the Hollenia border, and it coloured his speech, his slow way of talking, and his rolling gait, not to mention his simplistic worldview. Sometimes it made Malevorn want to slap him, but he put up with it. It was good to have someone at his back, because there were plenty here who’d stick the knife in, given half a chance. Inquisitorial Fists were supposed to be bands of brothers, but he’d quickly learned that they were as vicious as any gang of thieves.

‘We spoke of the governor.’

‘Belonius Vult,’ Dominic exclaimed. The whole Fist was listening, hanging on every word. They knew that they were being sent to question someone, and that their Fist had been specifically chosen; anything else was pure conjecture.

‘Vult’s only a half-blood,’ Filius sneered. ‘I’m amazed he has the wit for the role.’ Filius judged people’s worth purely by their bloodlines and devotion to Kore; Malevorn, pure-blood though he was, knew there was much, much more to furthering oneself than that.
Thank Kore!

The windship descended upon the mooring towers like a great bird of prey. Ropes snaked through the air and bound the vessel and it quivered and jerked to a halt like some insect snared in a web. As they gathered their belongings and prepared to disembark Brother Jonas, who resented him most, made a cocksucker gesture at him, flicking his eyes between him and the Crozier.

Malevorn eyeballed him back stonily.

Jonas sent.