Unholy War (64 page)

Then they struck a lower slope, the hull splintered at the front and the craft lurched sideways in a spray of earth and stone, and then she was falling away, weightless. Her last glimpse was of Kazim flying over the top of her, spinning head over heels. Then something smashed into the back of her head and the world collapsed into blackness.

*

Kazim used kinetic energy to enfold himself as he spun in the air and turned the uncontrolled fall into a cartwheel and an almost graceful landing on one knee, facing upwards, his scimitar drawn and a mage-bolt ready on his finger-tips. Then he dropped to the ground as the skiff hurtled past him and he heard it hammering into the boulders below. He threw up shields as his eyes sought Elena in the wreckage.

No, no no no—

Had he been anything less than he was, he would have been slain – but as the bakhtak dropped from the sky, he felt it come and turned his readied mage-bolt on it. Finally he caught the thing with his full power, and Ascendant-level energy blasted into it at close range, hurling it down the slope, its flesh so brightly illuminated that he could see its bones. Its rags burned away, what little hair was left on its skull crisped, and it landed with a thud some twenty feet down the slope and lay there, sizzling in the thin snow that crusted the slope.

There was a dark mound on the slope above where the skiff had flipped over.

His eyes penetrated the gloom, making out splayed limbs and an unmoving body. He couldn’t feel her mind, for the first time that night, and his heart hammered, his throat went utterly dry and his chest contracted until he could barely breath.

‘
ELLA!
’

Nothing.

Then from below he sensed a presence and turned as the twig-like arms of the bakhtak began to move, like a corpse rising from a grave. It came upright, its snapped left leg re-straightening, and the snow formed on its bones, becoming a kind of flesh. Violet light rekindled in its eyes

Lord Ahm …

He backed towards Elena, but the bakhtak flashed overhead, a blur of darkness and he screamed in sheer terror, more afraid than he had ever been in his life, as it reappeared above Elena’s broken form. She didn’t even move as it reached for her.

‘
NOOO!
’

Using a combination of his own natural athleticism, Ascendant-power telekinetic force and blind, unthinking desperation, Kazim covered the distance in a second. He grasped the numbing ice-flesh of the dead thing and pulled it from her. It turned on him and opened its mouth of rotting teeth and purple death-light, illuminating the hideous, rotting face as it snarled.

The silver arc of his blade, lit by gnosis, swept through the bakhtak’s neck, power flashing and his scimitar almost melting with the energy he was pouring through it, but something snapped; the skull flew, bounced, and rolled into a snowdrift and the corpse dropped.

His left hand, his whole left arm, had gone utterly numb, but he dropped his ruined hilt and poured fire into the corpse, and then the head, and kept burning until only charred nothingness remained. For the first few seconds he felt it struggling to reform and rise, then the dark light in it winked out, the flames turned a clean and healthy red and the snows became water and flooded away.

He dropped to his knees beside Elena and just held on, pouring back all he’d taken from her until there was nothing left to give.

That was how they were found, him wrapped about her, their flesh as cold as the stones.

*

Rutt gestured and Arnulf Rhumberg’s massive blade plunged into Grandmaster Tullesque’s back. The Kirkegarde commander gasped once, but anything he might have done to preserve himself was undone by the gnosis-bolt Rutt blasted into his face.

‘You were supposed to behead him,’ he grumbled as the corpse slid off Rhumberg’s sword and fell twitching to the stone.

The massive Hollenian, a towering mountain of blond hair, shaggy furs and layers upon layers of chainmail, grunted unrepentantly. ‘He had his arms up, didn’t he? Awkward angle, that.’ He rectified the matter with another blow, severing the neck and almost breaking his sword on the stones. ‘There, got ’im, din’t I?’

Sordell could hear the tramp of Rhumberg’s men below as they took over the palace, asserting control by sheer numbers. The Kirkegarde wouldn’t be happy, and soon they’d be even more suspicious, but …
how’ll they prove anything?

A few seconds earlier, right after announcing that Elena was dead, Tullesque had staggered and then stood there, silent and motionless. Some trauma had flashed along his link to the spectral summoning, leaving the Grandmaster stunned for a few heartbeats.

Just long enough to kill the prick
, Rutt thought, smiling cheerily. ‘Ah, here we go.’ A leggy black scarab more than four inches across was forcing its way out of Tullesque’s mouth. He let it drop to the marble floor, then stamped on it. The crunch made the giant Rhumberg wince.

‘Fuckin’ hate insects, I do,’ the Hollenian remarked, shuddering. He wiped his sword on Tullesque’s white cloak and said blithely, ‘Don’ mind chopping a fella down, ’specially cunts like ’im, but bugs … I bloody hate ’em.’ He looked at Rutt admiringly. ‘Glad you got that big fucker, sar.’

‘So am I.’ Rutt wiped off the slime on his boot-sole on Tullesque’s gleaming tabard. ‘How many men have you brought?’

‘Lots, sar. Four maniples. That’s two thousand men, that is.’

‘I know how many men in a maniple, Rhumberg.’ The Hollenian was an Earth mage, simple-minded, but blazingly effective on a good day. ‘How have the Kirkegarde taken to your arrival?’

‘A bit disgruntled, sar.’

‘I expect losing their commander won’t help.’

‘What’ll we tell them?’

‘That he lost control of his summoning. Tragic, really. If any of them question it, arrest them for subversion.’

Rhumberg grinned. ‘Yes, sar!’ He saluted, and hurried off, leaving Rutt alone.

For a while he just stared into space, wondering whether Elena really was dead. And what about her companion? ‘Someone killed that damned spectral-mage,’ he mused aloud. ‘I suppose we’ll have to go and find out who.’

‘We will indeed,’ said a familiar voice behind him.

Rutt spun round, his face lighting up. ‘Boss!’

Gurvon Gyle grinned. ‘Rutt, well met!’ They shook hands, clapped each other on the back.

‘What are you doing here, Gurv? I thought you were going to stay in Brochena.’

‘Not when you’ve found Elena. I want her dead, and though I trust you more than anyone to get the job done, I wanted to deal the killing blow myself.’ He spat on Tullesque’s corpse. ‘I’ve flown all day and night on gnostic winds to be here.’ He looked about him. ‘Where’s Mara?’

Rutt drew back a little. ‘She’s dead,’ he said, faintly regretful. ‘Elena killed her.’

Gurvon blinked once. ‘By the Kore! I always thought Mara was indestructible.’

‘So did I, I suppose.’

There didn’t seem much else to say.

Gurvon gripped Rutt’s shoulder. ‘Samir. Arno. Vedya. Now Mara. They were the heart of us, the core members of the Grey Foxes. Now Elena’s killed them all.’

‘She might be dead too.’

‘Until I see the body …’ Gurvon sighed. ‘In a way, I hope she isn’t. I want it to be one of us who finishes her, not some stinking pure-blood like Tullesque.’

‘Hey, I’m a pure-blood now,’ Rutt protested, an uncharacteristic smile creeping across his face.

‘So you are.’

‘Who’s in charge in Brochena, Gurv, if you’re here?’

Gurvon tutted softly. ‘The rest of the Regency Council, each watching the other. Hans and Endus know not to cross me, and Heale and Margham don’t have the nerve.’ He clapped Rutt on the shoulder. ‘My friend, can you keep a secret?’

He turned and looked at him. ‘Of course, Gurv – it’s why you hired me, remember?’

‘I have a
guest
with me: politically,
very
dangerous. I want you to find me a secret place to stow them.’

‘Of course.’ Rutt thought for a second. ‘Timori Nesti? Brochena getting too hot?’

‘Keep it dark, Rutt.’ Gurvon touched a finger to his nose. ‘So, where did Tullesque’s creature last see Elena?’

‘Tullesque kept me appraised, and I tuned in on the chase myself. It was around forty miles northwest of here. Give me a few moments with a map and compass and we’ll have the spot, more or less.’

‘Do that. I want a mounted detachment ready to leave by midday. I’ll lead it personally. Until I see the body, I’ll not believe she’s dead.’

28

The Mughal’s Dome at Teshwallabad

Ramita Ankesharan held Nasatya against her left breast, and fed him the bottled milk. His brother wailed in protest at having to wait, but she sent him calming thoughts and he quieted. Her breasts were still distended and the skin stretch-marked, but the ache from weaning was beginning to recede.
Six months old
, she thought proudly, though it felt like for ever, being nursemaid and dairy cow for her babies and their insatiable appetites.
But how they are growing!

It was wonderful to be in her homeland, though Teshwallabad was not Baranasi, where her heart was. In some ways, it felt like being back in Hebusalim: shut away in a marble palace while the wail of Godsingers filled the hours, and all the same restrictions: do not go outside; do not be seen at the windows. Stay safe.

I just want to go out! I want to go down to the markets and haggle for sweets. I’d even settle for just going outside.

It had been three weeks since they’d arrived in Teshwallabad, and being in Lakh made her miss her family more keenly than ever. Vizier Hanook had hidden them in the south, in Dili, hundreds of miles away. He had given her the details, including their new names, and promised a reunion when the danger had passed, but she chafed for that moment. Separation from the bustle and noise of her brothers and sisters was like losing a limb, and being so long without her mother was hollowing out her heart.

I wish I could just leave here and go far away, to somewhere where no one knows who I am. Just me and my sons. And my family. And perhaps my new bhaiya …

She smiled fondly at the thought of Alaron Mercer meeting her mad family. How would he cope with Mother and Father and their constant, goodhearted squabbling? Or the twins, stampeding about? And what about Jai and Keita and their child – though Hanook had not seen them, so who knew where they might be?

Alaron would go grey within a day of meeting us all.

The young Rondian was away in the library, where he had been spending most of his time; Hanook was more than happy that Alaron was content to scribble away in the semi-shadows. Alaron had been genuinely excited by the old vizier’s library, though Ramita struggled to understand; she had learned to read only last year and she still couldn’t match the way Alaron could scan a page in seconds and understand it; a skill as magical as the gnosis itself. She tried to imagine a world in which all young children were taught such skills, but her mind baulked.

Nas gurgled and pulled his mouth from the bottle, so she laid him on a towel on the floor to roll about while she fed Das. Both had thick black hair, which they surely got from her, but their skin was pale gold, the colour the noble women of Lakh all craved. Dark skin like hers betrayed a low birth-caste or a life in poverty, the legacy of her forebears who spent their lives labouring outdoors in the punishing sunlight. Her sons would be envied, that was for sure.

And they will be handsome too, like Jai – and like the statues of my husband when he was young.

She smiled at these thoughts and tried not to think about the other thing hanging over her life like a shadow: possible marriage to the mughal. It seemed ridiculous to even contemplate such a union: she was just a market-girl, after all! But she was also this other thing: Lady Meiros, a mage of unmeasured strength. What might her children be? Could she and the mughal establish a dynasty that enriched the realm? It was a powerful thought, that her offspring could mean so much to so many. But it was demeaning too, to be regarded as nothing more than a particularly fruitful womb.

But when have women been anything other than that? Even my father, who loved me, sold me to a man for the best price he could get. And am I not supposed to find a way to end these wars? Will selling myself into another marriage truly aid that?

She felt her contentment curdle as other doubts surfaced, like what would happen to her sons should the mughal wish to take her to wife? Would he adopt them, or would they need to be hidden away?

No. I refuse to believe that. The mughal will take me to wife and adopt my children as his own. We will pretend they are his. My family will come here, and we will live happily for ever after. That is how it will be.

She finished feeding Das and after playing with the twins for a while to tire them, she put them into their cots. Then she had to focus on the next task, a secret assignation she could not miss. She pulled on the drab and dirty clothing they had given her to wear and went down to the foyer. Today she would finally be allowed outside, to observe the mughal.

Dareem was waiting for her, as always, faultlessly patient and polite, but she could not shake the feeling that he saw her as nothing but a game piece. His clothing was as rough as hers, but he still looked like a lord to her.

‘Lady Meiros, are you ready?’

‘I think so,’ she murmured uncertainly.

‘No one will know you out there. I’m the one who risks attention.’ He smiled in that self-satisfied way he had, then his face rippled into another, coarser visage. ‘It is the day of open court today, when the mughal publically hears plaintiffs before whoever can squeeze into the courtyard.’

Her first steps into the open air and sunshine were dizzying, but then she had to concentrate on the crowds, ebbing and flowing through the tangled streets, the stench and perfume of humanity and beasts flowing together into a fug that hung in the steaming air. Camels and donkeys hauled carts through the choked arteries of the city, all ludicrously overburdened with goods. Men and women with baskets on their heads pushed and shoved, their faces set and grim. Tiny shops presided over by family owners filled every conceivable cranny, clamouring to the passersby to stop and look.
Looking is free!
She’d used the phrase herself in Aruna Nagar.

Dareem looked at ease despite the deafening press; he was pushing as hard as he was pushed and swearing like a street-denizen, while Ramita kept her head down and followed him like the dutiful daughter she was pretending to be. Finally they came up against a cordon of soldiers and gaudily clad officials who had blocked off half the square before the massive crystal-domed palace.

Dareem pulled out a clay disc and showed it to the officials, whilst slipping one a handful of copper coins, and they were waved through.

The vizier’s son leaned and spoke in her ear. ‘If anyone asks, we are kin of a plaintiff,’ he reminded her. As they found a space for themselves, Ramita noticed that beyond another cordon there were some men in very fine apparel, with thick sheaves of paper and haughty airs, who all seemed to know each other. ‘Avukati,’ Dareem told her. ‘Experts on the law. If you want to gain a favourable outcome, it is best to hire one – though they’ll charge you nigh as much as you might gain from a successful plea.’

Ramita had heard her father make the same comment many times; in trade one occasionally needed to take a case against a cheating rival. But her attention was fixed on the awning-covered raised plinth at the end of the square, next to the gates to the palace. She struggled to get a view as trumpets blared and marching feet echoed all about. Everyone around her was much taller, but she caught glimpses as the mughal himself mounted the dais, flanked by a cloud of soldiers and his advisors. Apart from Vizier Hanook, all the other advisors were Godspeakers, robed in white with bushy beards and stern faces. Dareem pointed out the chief one. ‘That is Vahraz, my father’s greatest rival.’

The whole crowd bowed thrice for their ruler, who then raised a hand for silence and declared court open in a thin but carrying voice. Everyone before the dais sat on the ground, which at least meant that her view was clear. It was a routine morning, according to Dareem, starting with a string of disputes from the lower courts where the decision had been appealed. Ramita quickly saw a pattern emerging: the man with the best-dressed avukati invariably won, and that told her that the mughal’s court was a kind of market: money spoke. Some cases were vigorously debated, but most had a perfunctory air. The better dressed avukati spoke well, the poorer dressed ones with desperation or resignation. Hanook occasionally whispered in the mughal’s ear, but just as often it was Vahraz who gave advice.

Most of the time her eyes remained fixed on the young ruler. Tariq Srinarayan Kishan-ji was almost fifteen, two years younger than her, and had a plump face, a small mouth and pale, creamy skin. He wore a crowned turban that looked heavy and uncomfortable, and his long black hair, oiled and curling, fell about his shoulder. He had the beginnings of a paunch already, and narrow, watchful eyes. His every word was hung on, but he said little beyond giving his decision with a wave of the hand towards either a white or red banner – white for innocent, red for guilty. She thought he was nervous of the powerful men who flanked him and sought to hide it with a puffed-up manner.

‘Has your father spoken of me to his Majesty?’ she whispered to Dareem.

‘He has. The story Father used is that you are in hiding, seeking sanctuary in Teshwallabad,’ Dareem replied softly. ‘He is nervous that a Lakh mage-woman is loose in the world, and worried that a southern rival might accept you if he does not. He is also – quite rightly – frightened of the unrest that marrying a mage would provoke.’

She listened to this with mixed feelings. Though the haven the mughal represented was desirable, she did not think after seeing him in the flesh that marriage to him was something she would enjoy. He was a raja and she was from the market. He would see her as a lesser being, no matter who her first husband had been.

Dareem read her easily. ‘You are not pleased, Lady. You think him someone from another world to you entirely. You are having doubts.’

She nodded hesitantly.

‘You need to understand that Tariq has been given whatever he wanted from birth, but he also has had to deal with the threat of having all of it snatched away at any moment. The court has been one of intrigue from the beginning. There are spies here from Kesh and Khotri and all the kingdoms of Southern Lakh. There are different sects of the Amteh seeking pre-eminence. There are plots everywhere. And Father and I are not the only secret magi here.’

Ramita blinked fearfully. ‘Really?’

‘Salim of Kesh has planted low-blooded magi here too, using similar tactics to our own. I myself have eliminated two in the past four years. There are Hadishah here too, aiding the cause of the shihadis. This is a house of knives, Lady Meiros: a multi-sided concealed conflict that every so often turns bloody.’

‘You are not a good negotiator, Dareem of Teshwallabad. You are not selling this venture to me.’

‘We would not send you into this blind, Lady Meiros. I seek only to inform your choices. But know this: Tariq does not beat his wives, though he does have favourites, those who use their looks and feminine arts to influence him. He enjoys the pleasures of life far more than either Father or the Godspeakers think proper.’

‘Does he have brothers?’

‘Not any more,’ Dareem replied grimly. ‘His elder brothers fell under the sway of a shihadi fanatic and attempted to seize power from their father while Tariq was still a child. They failed, and paid the price.’

‘Who is his heir?’

‘One of his two newborn sons,’ Dareem responded, ‘born one each to his favoured wives. There are also two daughters.’

‘He’s been busy,’ she noted drily.
Fourteen and he’s sired four children! Darikha-ji, what kind of life is this?

‘Traditionally, attrition is high in royal households,’ Dareem replied. ‘Plenty of heirs are required to secure the succession. So long as the throne keeps a tight grip on its powerbases, the stability of the realm is enhanced. A palace coup seldom touches the people.’

‘The rajas of Baranasi were always knifing each other,’ Ramita agreed. ‘We barely noticed.’ She pursed her lips, thinking hard. ‘Given that he is young and his heirs younger, who would rule if he died?’

‘A good question. Technically, a Regency Council chaired by Father would preside. That is what happened when Tariq’s father died, leaving him as mughal-elect. Vahraz claimed that Father would seek to seize power, but he proved the Godspeaker wrong by handing the throne to Tariq when he came of age at twelve years old.’

‘How old are his wives?’

‘The eldest is twenty-two, the youngest is eleven. They are political alliances, mostly. Many are Lakh and Omali by birth. But his favoured wives are Khotri princesses. And all his wives must convert to the Amteh,’ he added.

Ramita put a hand to her heart.
No … I could not …

Their conversation was suddenly disturbed by a loud wail from a woman from a place near the stage. Everyone craned their necks and everyone around them stood. Dareem took her hand and pulled her to her feet. ‘Lady, this is now the time for clemency appeals, on behalf of those condemned to die.’

‘What will happen?’

‘A final plea is made before the people. Those who have been condemned and await sentence are brought forth, and the mughal may give a pardon, or lessen their sentence if he finds cause.’

‘And if not?’

Dareem made a chopping motion with his hand. ‘Death. Usually at sunset.’