Unholy War (26 page)

Hans Frikter swore next. ‘I believe we have a deal, gentlemen,’ he said after he was done, with blithe disregard for Staria’s gender. ‘Now, where’s that Kore-bedamned beer?’

*

Cera sat in a chair beside Francis at the head table, watching the faces and the way they interacted. The tent was filled with senior magi of all parties, and she could almost see the gnostic energies, the subtle protections from spells or steel. They were all unarmed, but they wore their gnostic prowess like weapons. The numbers were carefully even at twenty each. Apart from herself and Staria Canestos, there were no women. The conversation was formal, stilted, and mostly concerning news of the crusade. None appeared at all worried about the news from Shaliyah: it scarcely rated a mention, and when it did, it was only to speculate about enemy magi. That the sultan had somehow gained gnostic aid stunned her, but no one spoke to her, so she could only store up the snippets of information for later. Tarita had told her the tale of Shaliyah was all over the streets of Brochena. The Javonesi were in ferment about it, gangs of youths breaking curfew and harassing the Rondian soldiers, but still open rebellion had not broken out.

She scanned the room, saw that the mercenaries didn’t mix with the Dorobon at all. Endus Rykjard clearly liked Hans Frikter, but not Staria Canestos. She heard sneering terms like ‘shisha-men’, ‘froci’ and ‘mooners’, but never in Staria’s hearing. There was an intimidating brittleness about the female mercenary that made everyone uneasy.

So she swallowed a little when the woman came and sat beside her, looking her up and down with narrow eyes. ‘So, you’re the Nesti?’ she said in passable Rimoni. The language shared enough words with Estellayne that most people who spoke one could converse with little misunderstanding.

‘I am Queen Cera Nesti.’

Staria studied her thoughtfully. ‘I hear Francis has two wives?’

Cera didn’t want to talk about Portia with this woman. ‘My sister-wife has been sent north for the term of her pregnancy.’

‘Three in a bed is rarely as much fun as people think,’ Staria remarked drily. ‘There’s never enough room and too many elbows. If you had the choice, which one would you kick out?’

Cera blinked, looked at the mercenary, then away. ‘Amteh men frequently have many wives.’

‘Francis isn’t Amteh and he’s not a man. He’s an immature, randy boy. I’m told he favours your rival?’

‘She’s not my rival.’ She made herself meet the other woman’s crooked gaze. ‘Are you married?’

‘Me? No. I have a nephew whom I have legally adopted: Leopollo is the best-looking mooner in Yuros. I have an adopted daughter too, Kordea. But I’ve not shared my bed with anyone for ten years or more, not since taking command of the legion.’ She picked at a bowl of nuts. ‘Love and leadership do not mix easily, and especially not for a woman.’

Cera nibbled her lower lip at that less than optimistic thought.
Is that what I must also do?

Staria studied Cera silently for a moment, looking her over as if she was a piece of fruit she was thinking of buying. ‘So,’ she said, ‘what is the Beggars’ Court?’

‘It’s a place where any person’s grievances can be voiced and heard. You have heard of it?’

‘Gurvon told me. He says that you are on a crusade for women’s justice.’ She sounded amused at the concept.

‘He mocks me.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so, dear. He admires you.’ She added, ‘But I see from your face that this is not mutual.’

‘He had my parents killed, and my sister too. If I had any way of doing so, I would kill him for those crimes. My Rimoni blood demands it, as does natural justice.’

‘Yet still you dance to his tune.’

‘
I do not.
’

Staria smirked. ‘You are political, I am told. Alliances of expedience happen all the time in that arena.’ Her eyebrows lifted. ‘Even marital alliances with invaders.’

‘I’m not interested in alliances of expedience,’ Cera snapped back, angry because her own statement wasn’t true: she’d made such alliances too often: with Gyle, and with others. ‘One day I will have my revenge.’

Staria’s eyes bored into hers. ‘You are in earnest, clearly. But how do your people view your marriage?’

‘They understand,’ Cera shot back. ‘Come to the Beggars’ Court, see for yourself.’

Staria rubbed her chin. ‘Perhaps I shall.’

10

The Tale of Nasette

E
SPAR
M
OLDEN
, H
ISTORIAN
, B
RES, 772

‘Who was Nasette?’ Cym asked the leonine shape on the far side of the small cooking fire as she stirred the rabbit stew. The name had been on her mind for days, ever since Huriya had said it.

Zaqri looked across the fire, his eyes lit by the flames. He was darning a ripped shirt with a bone needle. ‘You do not know the tale?’

‘Obviously not, or I wouldn’t ask,’ she replied sarcastically.

‘Nasette was a mage-girl who became a Souldrinker.’

Cym dropped her stirring stick and stared. She felt her skin break out in a sweat. ‘Truly?’

‘Yes, though how is a secret known only to a few, like Sabele. When Huriya assumed Sabele’s soul she gained this knowledge.’

‘But you told me that Dokken gain only energy from taking a soul,’ Cym reminded him.

‘This is so, but Sabele has taken many bodies in her long life. Somehow she has found a way to move her soul from Souldrinker to Souldrinker. At times it has appeared to be involuntary; other times clearly deliberate. Either way, her personality asserts itself eventually.’

Cym felt a faint rush of nausea, despite her loathing of the little Keshi girl. ‘Does Huriya know?’

Zaqri shrugged. ‘I doubt it, or she would not be so sure of herself.’ There was little sympathy in his voice.

Cym had none either. ‘So, when she talked about Nasette, she was suggesting turning me into one of you.’

‘She still believes it would enforce your loyalty to our Brethren.’

Cym had seen enough of the half-beast lives of these Dokken to know she never, ever, wanted to be one. And to have to kill for the gnosis?
Never!
‘She can’t be serious.’

‘She is – but I won’t let it happen, Cymbellea.’

She studied his face, trying to understand what she felt for him. Her gnostic sight showed her the wrongness in his aura, the strange tendrils and bruise-like discolouration. She’d noticed it got worse when he was low on energy.

‘Why?’ she asked at last.

‘Because you are perfect as you are.’

She spat disgustedly. ‘Go rukk yourself, Dokken.’

He snorted mildly, though she could sense his temper rising. She knew she was trying his patience and that wasn’t wise. Nor did it make her proud: she’d been raised to give respect, to keep her dignity, even among enemies.

Damn him for his honour – and everything else about him that I can’t ignore.

‘You can be as nice as you like to me,’ she told him, ‘I’m still going to kill you. Or your mother.’

‘My mother is long dead, and my father too. I have no kin other than this pack.’

‘They don’t count. It will have to be you, then.’

He didn’t react. He never did.

She and Zaqri travelled separately from the pack, using the carpet so she didn’t slow him down, though even with the energy crystal she was permanently exhausted. They flew mostly under moonlight, sleeping during the day, and that had its own tensions, for she knew he wanted her; she could feel it. That he was able to contain his desires was something she respected and was grateful for, but it made her uncomfortable too, especially when she found herself lusting for him: lithe, muscular, handsome, regal, everything she’d ever dreamed of. But the oath of vendetta had the stronger claim.

Days and weeks passed and still there was no sign of Alaron or Ramita. The pack had spread out, sweeping the land on a wide perimeter as they moved south. Zaqri occasionally left her alone to hunt in lion form; she noted that animals did not replenish his gnosis. It had to be a human spirit, so when his gnosis ran low, he would haunt some village and return with his aura brighter. It still nauseated her, and clearly he too hated the burden of having to kill to replenish himself; she struggled not to pity him for that.

The pack mustered again in southern Dhassa, beneath the shadow of the coastal range. The rendezvous was a watering hole beneath a rocky outcropping in a landscape strewn with massive piles of shattered and eroded stone. The whole of Zaqri’s pack had gathered, and Cym counted eighty-odd adult Dokken in all manner of shapes, and dozens of children. Huriya was there too, bathing naked in the pool, flirting blatantly with the men, but as Cym and Zaqri landed the carpet, all eyes turned to them.

The sensation hit her like a blow:
This is Pack.

She had spent so much time with Zaqri that she could sense it now. It was something in the nature of the Dokken and the way they lived in such close intimacy: they were gnostically bonded, aware of each other in ways humans could never be. It made them almost one organism, especially when they were gathered like this. They had no concepts of privacy or even individuality; they were able to feed off each other, sharing the gnosis. She could see the links clearly when she engaged her gnostic sight: tendrils of aura stretching from being to being, drawing them into the greater whole. There were no secrets here, no respite from each other. She felt violated just being aware of it and threw up her shields as she looked at Zaqri fearfully.

He flowed into human form and spoke aloud. ‘This is Cymbellea, and she is my mine. She is not to be harmed.’

The rest of the pack took human form too, except for a black panther, which snarled as it stepped towards her.
Hessaz
. Cym froze as the great cat prowled forward, not daring to move. It sniffed at her crotch, then blurred into human form. Hessaz’ skin was almost as black as her panther fur, but she was fractionally shorter than Cym, which seemed to anger her.

‘They have not mated,’ she announced, her harsh voice echoing about the water.

Thanks, tell the world
, Cym thought sourly. The woman’s manner irked her. ‘He still doesn’t want you, Kitty,’ she snapped, the words coming out without thought.

Hessaz growled as if still in beast form, and raised a hand to slap her, but Cym moved more quickly, catching her wrist and holding on, trembling at the sudden trial of strength. The Lokistani woman was stronger, just, but she gripped her hard and snapped defiantly, ‘You haven’t got what it takes to fight me.’
A Rimoni doesn’t back down
.

‘We’ll see about that.’ Hessaz glowered at her until a low rumble from Zaqri’s throat made her go still. She wrenched her hand out of Cym’s grip and backed away. ‘She will never be one of us,’ she said to Zaqri in a low voice. ‘She can never replace my sister. Ghila was your mate for
nine years
. She wed you the same day I wed Perno. You pledged that day to care for me if Perno fell, as he pledged to care for Ghila. You promised to love me as a sister. Where is that love now?’

‘It is still here, sister,’ he said, touching his left breast.

Hessaz looked at him with baleful eyes. ‘Then why do I not feel its heat?’

‘You are still my sister.’

‘I don’t want to be your sister,’ she shouted, her voice cracking. ‘I want more!’

Zaqri shook his head. ‘Nevertheless.’

For an instant Cym thought the Lokistani woman might sprout teeth and claws and fly at him, but instead she threw her head and wailed, then she spun round and ran out into the sands.

Huriya whispered in the ear of a man at her side, and he trotted after Hessaz.

she asked Zaqri, studying him. He was big, older than Zaqri, and heavily scarred. He looked very strong, though less agile than the lion-man. The bleached pallor of his hair hinted at northern Yuros, though his skin was burned dark.

His eyes went to Huriya.

His eyes glinted teasingly.

Zaqri said seriously.

His eyes followed Wornu until he was out of sight.

She put her hands on her hips.

*

The next morning, Wornu was wed to Hessaz. The ceremony was a simple and barbaric thing: Wornu simply laid claim to her, then they mated before the pack. Their heaving, sweaty coupling replayed in Cym’s mind for days after, stirring complex emotions. Hessaz was not pacified by her new mate though: whenever she looked at Cym, her eyes were full of hatred.

Zaqri spent the next few days among his people, renewing old bonds. Cym realised that her presence had weakened his standing, and she was afraid to be far from him, though so far no one had violated Zaqri’s protection edict. It wasn’t just the ancient enmity between magi and Dokken; Zaqri told her that hundreds of potential Dokken went their whole lives without ever awakening the gnosis for want of a mage to kill – no wonder they all wanted to destroy her, especially those with unawakened children.

The growing tension between Wornu and Zaqri came to a head the next evening as the pack gathered around the central cooking fires.

‘We must find these damned magi!’ Wornu shouted angrily. ‘How has this boy from Yuros eluded us? I’ll tell you why: it’s because you will not plunder the knowledge inside
her
head!’ He stabbed his finger at Cym. ‘She knows where the boy is and you’re protecting her, packleader! Why?’

Cym felt her breath shorten as a chorus of derision rose. Clearly some of the pack had been primed for this confrontation.

‘
Zaqri pants after the gypsy!
’

‘
She’s stolen the balls from his sack.
’

‘
An unmated packleader is no leader at all.
’

‘
Kill the gypsy and use her knowledge!
’

Cym looked around for Huriya and found her at the back, a satisfied look on her face.
She’s put Wornu up to this
.

Zaqri leapt atop the closest rock and shouted above the hubbub. ‘I know all that the Rimoni girl knows! It is not for lack of her information that we have not found the boy!’

‘We were promised blood – I have children to avenge!’ a woman called.

‘If I were leader we would not run from the Inquisitors!’ Wornu cried. ‘We would fight!’

Zaqri’s nostrils flared. ‘If
you
were leader – but you’re not, Wornu, and nor do you have the support for a challenge!’

‘Not got the support?’ Wornu shouted back, spreading his arms theatrically. ‘Do I not?’

As if primed, an alarming number of voices rose, shouting, ‘WORNU! WORNU!’

Cym saw Zaqri’s surprise and was shocked he’d not seen it coming.
He’s politically naïve
, she realised,
too noble and honest for his own good
. Her eyes went to Huriya, the Seeress.
I bet she foresaw everything
…

The clamour grew louder and Dokken started calling, ‘
A challenge! A challenge!
’

Zaqri drew himself to his full height and shouted for silence. It took several tries, but finally they settled enough to hear him out. ‘Listen to me! I swear to you, Cymbellea knows nothing she has not shared, willingly or by force. A challenge would achieve nothing but the further weakening of the pack!’

‘It is you who weakens the pack!’ Wornu snarled. ‘If you wish to strengthen us, share the essence of your Rimoni whore!’

‘Aye,’ Hessaz echoed, ‘kill the gypsy slut! Who here has a child ready to have their gnosis awakened?’

A chorus of hands went up and the noise rose further. Zaqri looked down at Cym and she could read his concern. Any illusion of safety was collapsing around them. He looked around at Huriya and read her smug expression and it finally sank in: Wornu was deadly serious, and Hessaz was willing to kill a man she’d once wanted as mate.

He’s my protection …

With a sinking heart she watched the inevitable play out in rituals of bravado. Wornu confronted Zaqri, bringing in his head so their foreheads were touching, and snorting like a bull, shouted, ‘I will find those we hunt! I’ll rip the knowledge from the gypsy’s mind!’

‘I don’t know where they are,
pezzi di merda
!’ Cym shouted furiously, unable to stay silent.

Hessaz stalked towards her and shoved her in the chest. ‘Shut it, whore!’

Cym staggered, caught herself and cried, ‘Tie your bitch back up, Wornu!’

Hessaz slapped her and she slapped back with a resounding great crack. All round her the pack whooped and shouted encouragement. She fed gnosis into her nails, bent her fingers into claws.

Hessaz’s whole head shifted to panther shape and she roared in Cym’s face.

Rukka!

‘Call her off, Wornu!’ she warned, backing up, fighting to keep her voice firm.