Unholy War (35 page)

Of course, the Amteh teach that only
men
have
real
honour. So do the Sollan and the Kore faiths. We women only have shame …

‘On the third time I visited,’ Kiraz said, ‘she gave me a sweet-cake, and touched my shoulders. She said I had good muscles. Then she asked me to take water into her tent. It was very small, and I had to crawl in to place the bucket at the far end. She followed me and grabbed me and turned me onto my back and she lay on top of me.’

The girl looked so utterly mortified that Cera was filled with deep sympathy for her. She wished with all her heart she’d never started this and a bitter taste filled her mouth as she gestured for Kiraz to continue.

‘She kissed me, all over my face, and told me that I should run away from home and stay with her.’

Cera kept her face and voice as nonjudgemental as possible. ‘What did you do?’

‘I told her to stop. I told her I had to go home. I tried to push her away.’ Kiraz hung her head. ‘But then she offered me money if I did what she wanted.’ She gave a small sob. ‘So I did. It was a lot of money.’

Cera closed her eyes.
Damned with her own words
. ‘And then?’ she asked, resigned to the worst.

‘She gave me silver, and I gave it to my brother and I went home. But on the way, we met my father and some other people, and my brother accidentally spilled the silver. It was more money than we see in a month, so questions were asked, and his …
my
… dishonour came out.’ Tears were spilling down her face now. ‘I only wanted the money. I am not … I am not what you think.’

His … My …

Don’t ask about the brother.

Cera felt a sick feeling grow in the pit of her stomach.
I see now.
She looked up at Staria Canestos. ‘Can this tale be verified?’

Ilmaz banged his staff upon the iron gate. ‘The father has given his testimony,’ he shouted. ‘So has the brother.’

‘I’m talking to the mercenary commander,’ Cera said coldly, looking up at Staria.

The mercenary woman was fingering her periapt idly. ‘Your court has no jurisdiction over my people,’ she called, her voice cutting through the babble of the crowd.

The reply drew an angry snarl from the listeners.

‘But is the tale true?’ Cera insisted.

Staria shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ Or care, her demeanour clearly said.

‘Who was the mage present?’

Staria narrowed her eyes warningly. Beside her, a younger man with a certain family resemblance to Staria leaned over the balcony. He had a beauty to him few women could match, from perfectly manicured from toenail to forelock, but it was an entirely male beauty. ‘It was me. I am Leopollo Canestos, Primus Battle-magus of the Arcoyris Estellan. I saw nothing of what this girl describes.’

Leopollo Canestos … Staria’s adopted son … merda! No doubt you saw nothing because you were in another tent with the brother, who then spilled the silver and blamed his poor, hapless sister, who was probably entirely blameless. His father would have had little choice other than to play along, because the sins of a son are so much worse than those of an unwanted daughter. Then Ilmaz got involved, and Staria won’t help her because she’s got enough shit to worry about, establishing her people here without her brother buggering young men for money.

She rubbed her brow tiredly.

Condemn a girl wrongly, or condemn a whole family and stir up street warfare against Staria’s people?

She didn’t need to be a diviner to see what would happen if she exposed the truth: it was the sort of tragedy that played itself out regularly in Javon: a dishonoured family could not marry off their children; they lost patronage from above and clientele for whatever business they had, not to mention suitors and friends falling aside as they slid down the community pecking order. So the father would protect his honour above all, because without it, his line would be extinct inside a generation. And if that failed he would strangle his children, one by one, then his wife, then drown himself in the river, hoping the holy waters would wash away all of their sins.

She met Kiraz’s red-rimmed eyes and they shared a moment of understanding: both knew the truth of the matter, and regardless of that, she would die for her family.
And she’ll die even if I exonerate her, because her father will destroy the whole family before admitting his line is tainted.

Cera raised a hand for silence. ‘The girl has pleaded her guilt,’ she said sadly, fixing the triumphant Ilmaz with a cold eye. ‘Let her be returned to her family, to determine whether any punishment is merited. Let them consider that under Sollan law, the girl would be removed from society and placed in solitary confinement within a convent. A stoning is not the only acceptable punishment before the laws of this land.’ She doubted the family would take this chance for a lesser sentence, but she felt compelled to at least raise the possibility. The father had already shown he would clutch at any straw to keep his son’s name from being besmirched.

Kiraz was led back outside, her shoulders heaving and her face buried in her veil, and was bundled away through a near-silent crowd.

Cera raised a hand, her appetite for justice thoroughly curdled.

‘I think that is enough for today.’ She stormed away, amidst murmurs of disappointment.

Poor blameless Kiraz will be a corpse by dusk.

*

‘You earned our respect today,’ Staria Canestos said grudgingly.

Cera stared out the window. Letting the mercenary leader into her suite was no way to deal with any taint that might attach to her own name, but there was nowhere else they could talk in private. At least Staria had raised wards to prevent Gyle from listening in.

‘Will it happen again?’ Cera asked eventually.

‘With my son? Who knows? He is indiscriminately lusty.’

‘And was there truly a woman trying to seduce the girl as she said?’

‘Not really. One of my people did flirt with her, but the girl wasn’t offered coin, and it all stopped when she said no.’ Staria tapped her fingers impatiently on the railing. ‘Her tale was a fiction to protect her brother. Leopollo should have known better, but …’ Staria paused and looked at Cera with an expression that was half apologetic, half truculent, then said, ‘My children take love where they can find it, little Queen. They cannot marry, even though most are as devout as anyone else. Society doesn’t know how to deal with us, here or in Yuros. That’s why we keep moving.’

‘But you’re here to stay now, aren’t you?’

Staria smiled grimly. ‘Perhaps. Come winter we’ll be marching west, for Forensa and Kestria.’

‘Forensa is my home,’ Cera told her coolly.

‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ The mercenary looked her up and down, focusing on her still-blackened left eye. ‘Does Francis Dorobon mistreat you often?’ Her voice had a subtle touch of menace.

Cera rubbed her eye socket gingerly. ‘This was the first time.’
If you don’t count the rukking.

‘Do you have a bodyguard?’

‘Not since Elena.’

‘Hmm. Do you want one? A woman – she is a mage, and skilled at arms.’

‘Why would you offer her?’

‘I said: I owe you.’

Cera turned half away. ‘And would she be … you know?’

Staria chuckled. ‘The young woman I have in mind is … adventurous.’

‘Then she’s the last thing I need.’

‘You think? From my vantage, I saw armed men in that crowd today, hovering near the gates. When you opened them to admit the girl, several came forward, and they were held back only by the Godspeaker’s word. Your life is in danger every time you hold court, my young queen, and the segregation in your society means that a male bodyguard could not properly protect you. You need a female bodyguard.’

‘Elena’s presence caused enough gossip. Thank you for the offer, but association with your legion is damaging enough. I will not taint my name further.’

Staria looked about to say something waspish, then she just grunted and spat over the railing. ‘Yet there you are, just as
tainted
as the least of my children.’

‘Why do you say they are your children?’

‘Because most have been disowned and have no parents. I am as much a mother to them as anyone.’

‘And are you?’

‘Safian?’ Staria rolled her eyes. ‘In all honesty, I’m as chaste as a nun these days. I have been from the day my father died and I assumed control of the company. Before that I liked a man inside me, but the thing is, men think they own you if they can climb inside your bed. As a commander I can’t afford that, so I resist any temptation these days.’ She cocked her head and looked Cera up and down. ‘What do you make of that?’

Cera licked her lips. Her time with Portia had been so fleeting, yet such an awakening … she yearned for more. She could not imagine anyone but Portia in her arms, though – not now, when their love still felt alive, though her heart was beginning to murmur that Portia had been grateful to get away from Brochena. ‘I like being in charge too,’ she admitted. ‘Too much to risk it for … fleeting things.’

‘Like having a warm body in your bed?’ Staria asked sympathetically.

Cera closed her eyes, remembering Portia nibbling at her lips while her fingers slid over her most intimate places with languid urgency, those moments of transcendent bliss, and the most delicious loss of control. ‘Perhaps. I don’t know.’

‘You’re still young; you should explore. But I’m past that now. I get more satisfaction from seeing my children grow.’ She pulled a tart face. ‘And I still have ten fingers.’ She cackled aloud when Cera blushed. ‘Don’t try and tell me you don’t know what I mean.’

Cera looked away, flustered.

‘Anyway, consider my offer of a bodyguard: I suspect you’ll need one. And I will repay you for what you did today. It mightn’t have felt like it, but you saved many lives at the cost of one.’

‘I can’t be proud of it.’

Staria shrugged. ‘Blame men. Blame honour. Blame my brother, or me, if you really want. Just don’t blame yourself.’ Then she turned and was gone.

*

When Cera bled a few days later, to her intense relief, she retreated alone to the Blood-tower, as demanded by al-Shaar.

‘Good evening!’ Tarita said cheerily as she bobbed her head. She seldom remembered to use titles, and usually spoke to Cera as if they were sisters. Having lost Solinde and Elena, Cera liked the little illusion of family between them. ‘Is all well?’

‘All is well,’ Cera responded, though her courses were still in heavy flow and she was in some discomfort. She looked at Tarita, wondering again precisely how old she was: she couldn’t be more than fifteen years old, despite her maturity – but she was growing older, if not taller, and increasingly furtive, so many secrets did she bear. She was Cera’s eyes and ears in the city, and her contact between Cera and the underground too, men like the criminal lord Mustaq al’Mahdi, the so-called Sultan of the Souk. She had every right to be wary.

‘I went to market today,’ Tarita said chattily. ‘Most of the stalls were only half-stocked. Some districts of the city are almost empty, but the traders say the Forensa Road is full of refugees, leaving here. The Nesti Council have guaranteed shelter and food for all.’

Cera thought back to when she was running the Nesti Council. At the time it had been stressful, but looking back, they seemed like the best days of her life, being listened to by those worldly, experienced men, making decisions that shaped lives. With Elena at her side …

‘They also say the Dorobon settlers have arrived at the Krak di Condotiori. Thirty thousand people! They are mostly coming here, they say, to fill the empty houses the local people have left behind.’

This will be their stronghold: their island in a hostile sea
.

Tarita’s voice dropped. ‘Kiraz – the safian – she drowned herself last night.’

Cera clenched her hands. ‘They say drowning is a better death than many,’ she said, though the words felt empty.
I wonder if she had help?
She hung her head, feeling horribly guilty, though this had been the girl’s choice.

‘They are saying on the streets that the Godspeakers are going to declare a ninda against you, my lady,’ Tarita went on in an angry voice, offended that anyone dared censure her queen. ‘There are youths who harass and beat young women if they come to the Beggars’ Court. Husbands and wives are fighting.’ Her voice dropped. ‘Perhaps it would be best to stop?’

Cera shook her head.
If I do that, I am nothing but a traitor who married a foreigner and did nothing with what that sacrifice purchased. I can’t stop
. She said only, ‘We must be brave. I’m not afraid of their ninda: their censure means nothing.’

Tarita didn’t look at all happy, but she bobbed dutifully. Her voice dropped further. ‘I heard today that another Dorobon patrol was wiped out on the Hytel Road. Another mage is dead. They say it was
her
again.’ Elena was Tarita’s personal hero.

Cera felt her throat go dry.
One day she’ll come for me
.

Then a cold voice cut across the room. ‘So you’ve heard,’ Symone remarked from the door.

Tarita jerked away and curtseyed awkwardly to the Rondian mage.

He flicked his sleek reddish hair back from a face too thin to be truly masculine. His demeanour was taut with suppressed menace as he blocked the exit.

‘This is the Blood-tower,’ Cera said sternly. ‘No men are allowed in the blood-rooms.’

‘Or what?’ Symone looked at Tarita with narrowed eyes. ‘You’re rather well-informed for a menial.’

Cera went to put a protective arm around Tarita, but she moved away and addressing Symone, said brightly, ‘Sir, I must be about my duties. May I pass?’

Symone glowered, then stepped aside. ‘Of course.’ But when Tarita came within reach he seized her forearm roughly and growled, ‘Know your place, maid.’

Tarita squirmed, making a distressed noise, and Cera snapped, ‘Don’t hurt her!’

‘Get out of here, bint,’ Symone snapped, shoving Tarita on her way.

‘You are blood-cursed!’ the maid shouted. ‘Ahm will strike you down!’ She slammed the door as she left.