Moontide 02 - The Scarlet Tides (43 page)

Portia shook her head.

Cera smiled. ‘It’s not hard. I can show you how.’

‘You would do this for me?’ Portia’s smile lit up her face. ‘In return, I can teach you also.’

‘What?’

‘How to fascinate a man.’

Cera snorted. ‘Me?’

Portia touched her lips with a finger. ‘Yes, you. Any woman can be fascinating if she wished to be. It’s all in the way you carry yourself.’

‘But there is no man I wish to fascinate.’

Portia snickered. ‘There is a whole court of men for you to twist about your fingers.’

‘But I’m ugly—’

‘No! No, no, no – you are beautiful, as all women are. Beauty is more than looks, amica. Much more. You could entrance them all, if you wish to. It’s all about self-confidence.’

Cera’s heart thumped. Suddenly the world seemed filled with possibilities again. Reluctantly she removed Portia’s arm from her shoulders – it had been comforting – so she could face her.
She’s what, twenty-three? Almost five years my senior …
She inhaled, let the responsibility settle on her shoulders. ‘I suppose … We can try it, but first you have to learn how to protect your mind …’

As she passed on what Elena had taught about concealing her thoughts, part of her mind raced on.
I need some kind of leverage over Gyle
… She smiled, remembering why she’d left that note in her room to be found in the first place.

Perhaps there is hope …

*

Gurvon Gyle waited in Cera’s parlour, standing when he heard the
door unlock. Hesta had found the note the day before, but he’d been tied up trying to confirm the coronation arrangements, an endless exercise in wrangling and nitpicking that was driving him crazy. If this was ruling, Francis truly deserved it.

The door swung open and Cera Nesti entered. Her Rimoni dress was damp in patches and her long black hair was hanging wet about her shoulders. It made her look oddly vulnerable, as if other things about her might also unravel. But her manner was focused, as if she was finally throwing off her despair. That gave him pause; she was suddenly interesting again.

‘Cera,’ he greeted her, ‘you wished to see me?’

Cera started, then lifted her chin. ‘You may enter,’ she said ironically, in that way she had of acting way beyond her years. It reminded him of Elena, in a good way.

‘Happy birthday, Princessa. You are nineteen today, yes? You should celebrate.’

‘There is nothing to celebrate,’ Cera replied, affecting carelessness.

He gave her a disarming smile. He liked her ongoing defiance, despite her helplessness. She was enduring, despite not having seen her little brother, despite having lost her people. But there was something about her today, something more confident. He wondered what it was.

‘You left a note?’ He sent tendrils of gnosis into her mind to try and discern her intent, but she barred them easily. Of course he could break into her mind, though not without causing damage. It annoyed him a little, but also intrigued him; it reminded him that she had been Elena’s protégé.

And I turned her against you, Ella,
he thought
, so mine the victory.

‘Magister Gyle, I heard something of interest two nights ago.’ At his raised eyebrows, she continued, ‘I was on my balcony, which is diagonally below Octa Dorobon’s.’

Interested despite himself, he looked toward the spy-hole with his gnostic sight to ensure Hesta wasn’t there, then asked, ‘What did you see?’

Cera smiled unconsciously. ‘Octa was alone, waiting. She didn’t
notice me at all.’
She still takes pleasure in stealth
, Gyle noted approvingly. ‘Then a glowing sphere appeared, about three feet in front of her. She was expecting it, I think.’

Gyle leant forward, itching inwardly. ‘Who was it?’

Cera smiled sweetly at him. ‘What do I get in return?’

‘I do not take well to being toyed with, Cera,’ he warned, lifting his hand.

She offered her cheek defiantly. ‘Go ahead. Hit me. It’s what I’d expect of you.’ She flared her nostrils. ‘But don’t expect any further help against them.’

Against—?
‘He lowered his hand slowly. ‘All right, girl. What do you want?’

‘To see my brother. And access to the passageways again. And for you to stop spying on me.’

He shook his head. ‘The passageways are vital to me.’

‘And to me,’ Cera flashed back. ‘We can both use them, as we used to.’ She cocked her head coquettishly, a gesture so out of character it startled him, and set little alarm bells ringing. ‘I like sneaking about in the dark too, remember?’

Is she
flirting
with me?
The thought of bedding her was … enticing…
if only to spit on your memory, Ella
. Since she’d betrayed Elena, he’d increasingly been thinking of Cera. Yes, she was somewhat plain, but still far more attractive than Olivia – and he was severely sick of that slug. And she had something Olivia would never have: an interesting mind. He found himself eyeing her speculatively
… Is the little girl growing up?

No
.
It is better she go to Francis Dorobon a virgin. He expects that
. But afterwards, when Francis has tired of her …
Perhaps
. ‘Why would you help me?’ he asked at last. ‘And don’t even think of lying, girl.’

She put her hands on her hips, which reminded him even more of Elena when she was in a defiant mood. ‘The Dorobon are worse than you, and they hate you. I think our interests are aligned, especially after what I heard Octa and the other mage say.’

She does know how to play this game
. ‘All right, I’m interested. But I cannot allow you access to the passageways. Not yet. Timori, possibly.’ He held up a finger. ‘Consider your news a downpayment.’

‘Very well. But no one will spy on my rooms again. And you will let me see Timori next week.’

He nodded impatiently. ‘Yes, all right.’ Cera offered a hand and he shook it crossly, unaccustomed to being outmanoeuvred. ‘Well then?’ he demanded.

‘Octa greeted the other person as “Mater-Imperia”.’

Gurvon froze. It wasn’t unexpected; of course Octa and Lucia spoke out of his hearing. But about what? He reached out tentatively with his mind, but hers remained infuriatingly opaque.
Elena trained her too damned well
. ‘What did they speak of?’

Cera smiled. ‘They spoke of you, Magister.’

His throat went dry. ‘Yes?’

‘At first they just gossiped, like old women do.’ The disdain in her voice was clear. ‘But then the Mater-Imperia voice said, “And what of the spymaster? When will you rid me of him?”’ Cera studied his face as she spoke, measuring the impact of her words.

‘And Octa replied?’ he asked, forcing himself to look unmoved.

‘Soon.’

Soon.
He clenched his fists and turned away to the window.
I shouldn’t have renegotiated my deal after I caught Elena. I thought I was being so smart, doubling my fee, extending the contract, demanding to be temporary Envoy. You don’t fuck with Lucia Fasterius …

‘What else?’

‘Nothing else. Yet. But Octa is out there most nights.’

It sounded plausible: being under the open sky did improve reception for Clairvoyance. He wondered how far advanced Lucia and Octa’s plans towards him were.
I need to hear this for myself
…

He looked down at Cera, who stood before him, hands on hips, both wary and defiant. There was something different in the way she met his eyes, as if she too were seeing something new in him. She looked both regal and needy, a disturbingly attractive combination. Something inside his empty core stirred.
She and I … is it possible?
He had an urge to seize her, to kiss her, to break her down. Since he and Elena had drifted apart, he missed having a true confidante, someone who was as intelligent as he was, as self-willed and ruthless.
He suddenly realised what he might actually have in Cera Nesti:
A partner
.

And I swear she feels it too …

But Cera’s virginity still had some currency, though he was suddenly loathe to let Francis Dorobon have it. He regained control of himself and bowed slightly. ‘If this is so, I am indebted for the warning,’ he told her. ‘I owe you.’

Cera met his eyes. ‘Why should the Dorobon rule this land? They have no ties here. They are just favourites of the emperor’s mother. They have been given Javon as a present. They don’t belong here.’

‘They have two legions,’ he reminded her softly.

‘They have one,’ she corrected, ‘and one of mercenaries.’

She keeps her eyes and ears open
. And she was right: only one of the legions here had any particular loyalty to the Dorobon. He’d pulled strings to ensure that was so – as a contingency. He inhaled slowly, staring out the window at the city baking in the morning sun. The heat rolled off the stonework in rippling waves. The distant lake was half its normal size, the salt-gatherers dark ants against the gleaming plain of the shallower far side.

He turned from the view and studied Cera, who was still observing, still keeping her wits about her. He was impressed. ‘Very well, Princessa,’ he said. ‘We have a deal.’

Cera’s eyes narrowed. ‘Not “Princessa”; I am Queen-Regent.’ She lifted her chin again. ‘Where is Timori being held? I need to see him.’

‘What of him? Without him you’d be Paterfamilias,’ he reminded her, ‘head of the Nesti in truth, not just as regent.’

Her face swelled and she was abruptly a young woman again. ‘He’s my brother!’ she snapped indignantly.

She is smart, but she is not self-serving. She puts family first: a very Rimoni trait
. He could respect that. Finding things to be loyal to was never easy. ‘I do not know where your brother is being held,’ he lied.

Her face changed, her expression becoming more measured. ‘Get him away from the Dorobon and I’ll do whatever you want.’

‘Would you? And what do you imagine I might want, Princessa?’

She cocked her head, looked up at him with an expression of
compromised innocence that was oddly stirring. There had always been something compelling about the notion of corrupting another. ‘I don’t know or care,’ she replied, her voice resolute, but he could almost believe it contained traces of curiosity, even yearning. It was the shyness, the unwillingness combined with resignation that he found stirring. ‘I’ll do whatever it takes,’ she said with a kind of desperate dignity.

It took considerable discipline to walk away.

*

‘Well?’ Portia whispered after she joined Cera in the crypt, walking between row upon row of tombs between the wall-niches into which the bodies of generations of Brochena’s most royal former inhabitants were sealed.

They knelt before the sarcophagus of Fernando Tolidi, Portia’s brother, buried here by the Nesti when they retook Brochena. After Portia had decided to let it remain here, a mason had carved his name in the stone and it had been properly sealed.

‘It was just like you said it would be,’ Cera whispered hoarsely. ‘I stood straighter and imagined myself as desirable to him – it was astonishing! The way he looked at me totally changed.’ She remembered how potent that moment had felt, despite her loathing for him.

Portia smiled grimly. ‘I told you. He is the kind of man who likes to take a naïve girl and make her his.’ She looked away. ‘My Uncle Alfredo’s like that.’

Cera didn’t want any details; she was already struggling to contain the morass of pride and shame inside her. ‘He didn’t ask anything of me. I think he’s still trying to get me into Francis’ bed.’

Portia pulled a face. ‘I can’t wait to get out of it.’ She seized Cera’s hand. ‘But I don’t wish it upon you, amica.’

‘I don’t know what I would have done if he’d demanded anything of me. I think I would have just thrown up.’

Portia’s eyes were pitying. ‘If it does come to that, pretend eagerness and ask him to teach you. That will make him feel masterful. Men like that,’ she added in tones of disgust.

Cera looked at her. ‘You really don’t like men, do you?’

Portia’s expression became stony. ‘Whatever I might have liked or disliked was ruined a long time ago. I just want to be free of them all. I think if I had the choice, I would become a Kore Acolyte – not because I believe in the Kore, but because their Acolytes swear to chastity.’

‘I wanted to be a Sollan priestess when I was younger,’ Cera confided. ‘But they aren’t virgins. They do it with drui during the seasonal rites.’

Portia smiled dourly. ‘I wanted to take the Sollan vows too, but my family wouldn’t let me. They had other plans.’

Cera squeezed her hands, wanting to comfort her, but not sure how. ‘I’m glad you’re here with me,’ she whispered. ‘If I didn’t have you to talk to, I think I’d kill myself.’

Portia touched her lips in admonishment. ‘Hush. That would be a sin.’

*

All day, Gurvon Gyle went from meeting to meeting in the city, face hidden by turban and scarf, clad in a leather-coloured kirta. It was like wearing a thin cotton tent, but surprisingly good for moderating the heat. The air was desiccating as the lands awaited the late summer rains that would replenish the parched lands. Brochena was gasping like a dying beast in the desert.

His spies reported no sightings of Elena. He’d always told his agents to create secret refuges for themselves; she would be in one of those, secure from scrying. She’d be plotting something, of that he was sure – against him, and likely Cera too. Elena had been on the defensive when Cera was regent, unable to do anything except await the coming blow, but now she was out there with no ties to hamper her. No one was truly impervious to assassination, and few of the killers he’d known matched Elena’s skills.

The hollow between his shoulder blades began to itch persistently.

The mood of the city was as dark as his thoughts. The widowed women of the Jhafi still lamented outside the Dom-al’Ahm, and Rimoni and Jhafi alike brooded sullenly from the city’s few shady
spots as the Dorobon soldiers marched past under the heat of the midday sun.

While the Dorobon family legion occupied the city, the mercenary legion patrolled the outlands. Two legions might have been enough to win at Fishil Wadi, but they were too few to secure such a vast land as Javon, and Kaltus Korion had refused to send more men, for he thought to bring the Keshi to battle. Word was that Korion was marching on Halli’kut, and Duke Echor of Argundy somewhere further south, hunting for Salim.