Moontide 02 - The Scarlet Tides (42 page)

‘And Mother, what an excellent suggestion: I want a feast. And something to hunt!’

‘There are mountain lions in the hills to the west,’ Gyle put in.

‘Lions!’ Francis spun towards him. ‘Excellent! I want to hunt lions.’ Gyle half-bowed in acknowledgement as he added, ‘Come, tell me of these great cats.’ He started walking towards the door, but his mother interrupted him.

‘Magister Gyle will join you later,’ she said firmly. ‘We need his … wisdom … on a few more details.’

Francis’ mouth contorted. ‘Kings do not do details. Join me later, Gyle.’ He swaggered out of the room, taking his coterie with him to start the evening’s carousing.

Once they were gone, Octa clapped her hands and barked, ‘Out!’ at Perdonello and his Crows.

Gyle carefully did not meet Perdonello’s eye as he watched them leave. He wanted to give no hint of the relationship they had been forging of late.

‘Magister Gyle,’ Octa started, once the room was completely empty of all but her own people.

He turned to face her, carefully neutral in his stance. ‘Milady Dorobon.’

The Nesti murdered her husband
, he reminded himself,
and half her friends
.

‘I do not like the way you seek to ingratiate yourself with my son. He is still naïve enough to believe that a man like you might actually wish him well.’

What you’re really worried about is that I might retain his friendship even
after I have to give up my role as Envoy
, he thought wryly. ‘I won him a throne, milady.’

‘Dorobon force of arms won the throne,’ Sir Terus Grandienne responded coldly. ‘We could have destroyed any army they sent against us.’

‘Well spoken, Sir Terus. We owe you nothing, Gyle.’

‘What use is he, then?’ Rhodium sniffed rhetorically. ‘Apart from entertaining young Francis, that is. Perhaps we should make him the Court Jester?’ A low laugh ran about the room.

‘He knows how to speak with mudskins,’ snickered a niece of Octa’s, a middle-aged battle-mage with double chins and a florid face. ‘Perhaps that’s all he’s good for.’

‘Yes indeed,’ Octa agreed. ‘Let me state plainly: you are not welcome here, Gyle. The Crown may have made you Envoy, but you have outstayed your welcome. Even men of such importance as Imperial Envoys can have accidents. I think perhaps it best that you tender your resignation and leave, before something
unfortunate
happens.’

Typical Octa: as subtle as an Estellayne bull.
He stood and descended from his throne. ‘I will gladly relinquish my role: when your son is crowned, and not before.’ He looked about him, thinking about the three magi in his pay currently watching from spy holes around the room, as well as Rutt Sordell in the young mage right behind Rhodium. ‘I believe I have a hunt to arrange. This session of the court is over.’

Sir Terus stepped in front of him. ‘You will give milady her due reverence,’ he ordered.

‘I give what reverence is owed,’ Gyle replied coolly. ‘Excuse me,’ he added, stepping around Sir Terus.

Sir Terus gripped his shoulder and pulled him to a halt. ‘You are not excused.’ He pulled a glove from his pocket and slapped it across Gyle’s cheek. ‘I challenge you to a duel, Gurvon Gyle, for your disrespect towards the matriarch of House Dorobon.’

The room fell silent.

Oh, for Kore’s sake
. Gyle shook off the knight’s hand off. Sir Terus Grandienne was a pure-blood, one of those who’d survived the Nesti
poisons in 921, and he was a renowned fighter. To accept the challenge would be suicidal. Thankfully, duelling had long been identified as the leading killer of magi in Yuros, and with the need for gnosis-blood always rising, it had been forbidden. It still went on, though, for it was considered manly. ‘I think not, Sir Terus – although I shall be sure to mention the offer in my next report to Pallas.’

‘Coward.’

The room hissed with the suppressed thrill of anticipated violence.

‘A realist, Sir Terus. What was the last dictat issued by Emperor Constant about duelling between magi? I believe he called it an act of treachery and dishonour?’

‘You can hide behind parchment if you like, Gyle. It won’t protect you in the end.’

‘I’m not hiding, Terus.’

‘I believe you are a craven backstabber, Gyle.’

Gyle glanced at Octa. There was nothing but amusement in her eyes. He turned back to Terus. ‘Well, Terus.’ He grinned suddenly and slapped the man’s shoulder as if he were a friend. ‘Best you don’t turn your back, then.’

Terus’ face drained of colour. Duelling was one thing, but Gyle’s reputation was deadly. Everyone here knew full well he would and could kill a man in his sleep if he wished to.

He turned and left before someone else got it into their head to make a name for themselves, but he couldn’t quite suppress a smile.
Good luck sleeping now, Sir Terus.

*

Cera folded the piece of paper and left it in the middle of her bed, then, her heart speeding, studied herself in the mirror. She hurriedly retied her ponytail and straightened her circlet, then left the room, ignoring the urge to glance back, and waited in the small antechamber. The adjoining room had been Timori’s when they were younger – this had been the nursery suite, when she’d shared her room with Solinde – but she had no idea where he was being held. Portia Tolidi used it now, when she wasn’t in Francis Dorobon’s bed.

She would hear anyone coming up the hall, she decided, so she
dropped to her knees and peered through the keyhole back into her own room. Her heart quickened as she saw the secret panel in the wall slide open.

She didn’t know the heavily cloaked woman who entered the room, but she studied her carefully as she went to the unmade bed and picked up the folded piece of paper she’d left. She was middle-aged, and thin to the point of being gaunt, except for a pot belly. She had a huge nose, like the prow of a windship. Her colouring and the gold-looped nose-ring suggested that she was from Lantris. She read the brief note Cera had written,
I need to see Magister Gyle. Important
– and tucked it into her bodice. Cera prayed the Lantric woman would pass it on, though the intruder didn’t leave immediately; instead, she bent over the sheets and started sniffing them.

Ugh! She’s like a dog!

A door swung open behind her and she spun guiltily, too slow to conceal what she was doing. She looked up at Portia Tolidi, clad only in a robe, staring down at her. The Gorgio woman’s mouth fell open and Cera put a finger to her lips, her face pleading.

The look on Portia’s face turned to curiosity and she stepped forward silently, bent and nudged Cera aside. She smelled of sex and stale sweat, and her hair was tangled. These little flaws in her porcelain perfection somehow made her more human. She put her eye to the keyhole herself, then whispered, ‘Who is she? What’s she doing?’

Cera shook her head, fingers to her lips, thinking,
Maybe we’re going to have to be friends after all
. She leaned in and breathed in Portia’s ear, ‘Come away. We can’t talk here. Come to the baths.’

Portia nodded wordlessly, and they hurried away, not looking at each other. The stairwell led down five flights in a tight spiral and finished in an old Jhafi bowri that the royal family had used as their bath. No one else was there this early in the morning. Cera locked the heavy door behind them and joined Portia at the edge of the water as she was pulling off her gown, revealing her pale body. She descended the steps, her hips swaying gracefully.

It was hard to suppress her envy. Portia truly was perfect. Cera
found herself staring at the narrow, flat waist and thatch of russet pubic hair, the narrow hips and long legs. The woman was even more beautiful than Solinde had been, and she’d always thought Solinde utterly lovely. She was horribly self-conscious of the podginess of her own belly, not plump, but halfway there, and her unremarkable breasts, her unfashionably dark colouring. She half-turned to hide her face, and began talking to cover her sudden confusion. ‘I was going to bathe before dinner, but I wasn’t sure what the day would bring and—’

‘He bites me,’ Portia growled softly. ‘When he comes, he likes to bite my shoulder. Sometimes he draws blood. Look.’ She showed her shoulder, a mess of purple and yellow bruises and red scabbed welts.

The rest of Cera’s meaningless babble died in her throat. ‘I’m sorry—’

‘For what? Not stealing him from me? Just be thankful he only wants me.’

Cera reached out, touched the other woman’s upper arm, and then walked past her into the water. ‘We must get fully in.’ She pushed off into the dark waters. It was the lighting and the copper-coloured tiles that made the water appear black, for in fact it was clear, fresh water from rain-tanks. She dived under the surface and swam to the far side, where there was a ledge to sit on.

She glanced back and saw Portia was still sitting on the steps. She had soap, and was furiously rubbing between her legs, grunting with disgust. Bubbles rose about her as she scoured herself, then washed her belly and breasts, and then did it all over again. When at last she was done, she glared about her, her teeth bared. She dived under the surface, then emerged halfway across the pool, her ringlets fanning out behind her long and straight, her body white beneath the surface. She went under again, then rose like a river fish and joined Cera on the ledge, carefully out of reach. Her hair hung straight, water streaming from the sleekly shining tresses.

The water had been warmed by the sun-baked earth before being piped into the bowri. It was gloriously tepid and all-enveloping. Cera
felt her tension ease a little. She met Portia’s bruised eyes. ‘Elena told me that water and earth can hide us from scrying.’

Portia looked perplexed. ‘What is
scrying
?’

‘It is a magic thing: some magi can see things that are far away, but they can be foiled by hiding in water or earth. This place is perfect for secret conversations; Elena told me so.’

Portia’s face took on an expression that Cera was startled to recognise as respect. ‘You know so much.’ She cocked her head, staring openly. ‘When I heard that you were ruling Brochena like a king, I was filled with admiration. That a woman could do so much – it made me proud.’

Really?
Cera felt herself colouring. ‘But in Hytel, people must have hated us.’

Portia tittered softly. ‘Oh yes, Uncle Alfredo was in a fury. He cursed you, and utterly screamed blue murder about Elena Anborn.’ Her eyes flitted about. ‘Where is she? Is she hiding, waiting to rescue you?’

Cera shook her head, frightened to tell the truth, that she’d betrayed Elena and her own people.
It was to preserve them, I swear.
‘Elena has vanished.’
She’s out there somewhere, and she must hate me so much …

‘Who was that woman in your room?’ Portia whispered, leaning closer. Her breath smelled of cloves, sharp, but not unpleasant.

‘I think she must be one of Gyle’s magi. She had a nose-ring: that probably means she’s from Lantris. Married women wear them there.’

Portia wrinkled her nose. ‘That’s demeaning.’ She flinched. ‘Like I can talk.’

Portia was easy to read, or at least she seemed so to Cera. In public she had always exuded a kind of cultured sophistication, but here her mask was lifted and her emotions clear.
Portia isn’t whoring herself – she’s being pimped by her family
, Cera realised at last.
And she helped Tarita
.

She timidly reached out and seized Portia’s hand. ‘I think maybe we can be friends,’ she whispered. She stared at Portia’s shoulders, at the skin where Francis bit her. ‘Won’t he even heal you afterwards?’

Portia covered the marred skin with her hand. ‘He says he is branding me, to show that I am his.’ She lifted her chin angrily. ‘Every night is the same. I must undress, and then pleasure him with my mouth, to ready him. Then he takes me, always on top, for what feels like hours. And when he comes …’ She bared her teeth and gnashed them ferociously. ‘He thinks I like it.’ She glared at Cera. ‘One day I will kill him.’

Cera looked away, her mind working feverishly.
Is this real, or is it a trap? Is this something Gyle has devised to fool me, to make me betray myself? Or is this a real ally?
She wished longingly that she were a mage and could read the other woman’s mind, and found herself missing Elena again. ‘When he sleeps …’

Portia scowled bitterly. ‘He does not sleep in my presence. And I can take nothing into his room, not even my clothes.’ She clenched her teeth again. ‘His mother strips me and then searches me outside his room. He sends me out before sleeping. They trust no one.’

Cera closed her eyes bleakly. Everything seemed so hopeless.
But perhaps I really do have an ally
. She squeezed Portia’s hand. ‘We will find a way. We still have our brains and our free will.’

Portia squeezed back. ‘I meant what I said, you know. I do admire you. You have such dignity and courage.’

‘I’m just lucky I’m too ugly for Dorobon to want me.’

Portia shook her head. ‘You are not ugly, amica. Not at all.’

Oh, but I feel ugly, especially here beside you: flabby and shapeless and middle-aged before my time.

Portia put an arm around her shoulder, pulled Cera’s hair back behind her ear and whispered, ‘You are a strong woman, Cera Nesti. You were a true queen, and one day you will be again.’ The feel of Portia’s skin on hers made Cera squirm. She’d never been a hugging child. But this felt nice.

‘But I don’t know what to do. They’re magi – we have no one to help us.’

Portia shook her head. ‘We have friends, amica. Tarita knows people in the city, and word gets in and out, she told me. There are people on the outside who wish to aid us. Remember how your father
defeated the Dorobon all those years ago? Like father, like daughter, amica!’

Cera swallowed.
Yes, there are people who might help … But we need access to the passageways again … we need to get the eyes off us. And we need time, to plan things …
She looked at Portia. ‘Have you ever been told how to shield your thoughts from the magi?’