Unholy War (70 page)

If there was ever a place to kill a mage, it is here. Why did my husband build such a thing?

She could guess: Antonin Meiros had forbidden his people from meddling in Lakh, but he might not have trusted that others would keep such a prohibition. In giving the mughal a place where no mage could use their power over him, he ensured that the ruler could deal with a mage as he would any man. She wondered if there were other such places dotted about the land.

The double doors at the far end opened and in walked Mughal Tariq. In person he wasn’t tall, and his plump face, large eyes and the faintest beginnings of facial hair made him look soft. He had fair skin, for a Lakh. His stiffly brocaded coat fell to his knees, and a scimitar was sheathed in a glittering velvet and gold scabbard. His turban was crowned with a ruby as large as a grape. At his back stalked a large, shaven-headed man holding a giant two-handed curved sword, as tall as the man’s own six-foot frame. The weapon was bare and gleaming in his hands.
The bodyguard is called Kindu
, she remembered from Hanook’s briefings. His impressive moustaches gleamed with wax.

Hanook and Ramita went to their knees and stared at the floor. She heard one set of boots click on the marble: the young ruler ascending his throne. The heavier tread of Kindu measured a slow circle about her and the vizier, then returned to Tariq’s side.

‘Vizier Hanook, Lady Ramita.’ Tariq spoke in a clear boyish voice.

She and Hanook came up on their knees, then touched their foreheads to the floor. Her skin prickled at the thought that a dozen arrows could be loosed into her back any moment.

‘Thank you for seeing us, Great Mughal,’ Hanook replied.

‘Please rise, both of you.’

Beside her Hanook came smoothly to his feet, and Ramita followed his lead, a little awkwardly, as she was wearing a sari so encrusted in gems and brocade that it had taken four servants to wrap her in it. Rubies were set in her belly button and on her brow. Her arms were covered in gold bangles. Despite the clothing and jewels, she’d never felt more like a market-girl.

‘The veil, please.’ Mughal Tariq’s voice was curious.

Examining his new broodmare
. She lowered her veil, simmering, but kept her eyes modestly downcast.

‘Hmphf,’ the mughal grunted unenthusiastically. ‘She is rather diminutive. Very dark. What is her family and caste again?’

‘Ankesharan. Trader caste, of Baranasi.’

Tariq looked up at the ceiling, clearly unimpressed. ‘And she has the gnostic blood?’

‘Very strongly,’ Hanook said smoothly.

‘A woman can gain this power simply through bearing a child?’ Tariq’s tone suggested that he found the notion completely inappropriate. ‘How can it be so simple?’

Simple? You try bearing a child!

‘It is a widely known phenomenon among the high-blooded magi, Great Mughal.’

‘So there must be a child?’ Tariq sounded even less pleased at this notion.

‘There are two. Twin boys.’

Tariq scowled down at her from the throne. ‘How old are they?’

‘Six months, Great Mughal.’ Hanook’s voice was apologetic, which annoyed Ramita faintly.

‘Younger than mine. And not of my blood.’

‘It would be desirable to tie the babies to you by adoption,’ Hanook said. ‘Familial bonds will give them status here, and help cement their loyalty. Especially as they also will develop the gnosis in time.’

Tariq sniffed, a little disdainfully. ‘I would not have them taking precedence over any child of mine in the succession, my friend. I am of the line of Turig. Antonin Meiros was an afreet and this women is only a Lakh.’

Ramita felt her jaw clench.

‘Has her womb recovered? Can she bear more children? She has little value if she can’t.’

Little value
. Ramita smarted at that, and at the memory of her fertility being
proven
by the midwife Hanook had summoned; the scrawny Amteh woman had poked inside her with bony fingers and sniffed them, then declared her still viable. How she knew, Ramita had no idea.

‘Examination reveals that Lady Ramita has a normal cycle,’ Hanook replied.

Tariq tapped his fingers rhythmically on the arm of his throne. ‘I have been offered one of the daughters of the Sultan of Gatioch. She is said to be almost six foot tall, with fair skin and nipples the size of a flower. She is trained in the arts of pleasure, the Godspeaker says, yet still a virgin. And you offer me this used widow of a heretic. Vizier, I am not pleased. This undersized chit with her polluted yoni is not a suitable wife for the Emperor of Kings.’

Ramita glared at him from beneath her eyebrows.
I’m not that pleased with what I see either, oh ‘Exalted One’.
But she recognised Tariq’s protestations as the bargaining points a trader makes to beat down the price. Hanook clearly understood this too, as he responded with equanimity, ‘Exalted One, you know all wives cannot be for pleasure. This girl will strengthen your following in Baranasi, as well as bringing the gnosis into your bloodline.’

‘Do I gain the gnosis by ploughing her, Vizier?’

Ramita clenched a fist behind her back.
What a revolting thought! He’d have me on my back for his entire army.

‘I am sorry, Exalted One, that is not the way of it. But your children by her would have a great deal of power. With the Ordo Costruo gone and Rashid of Halli’kut aligning his renegades with Salim of Kesh, you must gain magi if you are to avoid being dominated by the Keshi. Salim’s ambitions will know no bounds after his victory at Shaliyah.’

Tariq rubbed his chin as if mimicking an adult. ‘This is true. But the Godspeakers will condemn this union.’

‘Salim of Kesh has found a way to reconcile his faith with using servants with the gnosis. Presumably his Godspeakers have also found some phrase in the
Kalistham
to justify themselves.’

‘Victory in battle wins most arguments. Is that not what my tutor always says?’ Tariq observed ironically.

Hanook, that same tutor, bowed in acknowledgement of his ruler’s wit. ‘Tariq, I do counsel this union. This is a good woman, dutiful and faithful, with a proven womb and the gnosis in her blood. This is a beneficial union, worth even foregoing the dubious pleasures of taking a Gatioch virgin to wife.’

Tariq sighed heavily, no doubt thinking regretfully of virginal beauties with flower-like nipples.

Ramita continued to glower at the floor.

‘So she has the gnosis,’ Tariq said thoughtfully. ‘What danger does this present to me, and those at court?’

Ah, so you’re a little scared of me, are you?
That cheered her up a little.

‘Great One, here within the Dome, where she will live the rest of her days, her powers are constrained.’

She felt a chill at that. She and Alaron had been learning so much – a whole new way of accessing the gnosis – and she’d only just begun to explore what she was capable of. Even that had left her trembling with excitement. She did not want to lose her new powers. And she most definitely did not want to be helpless in a hostile court.

Tariq sounded mollified, however. ‘Lift your face, girl,’ he said finally, a note of acceptance in his voice.

‘Girl’! I’m older than you, you spoilt little brat.
She lifted her face and met his eyes, then remembered she wasn’t supposed to. His eyes narrowed at the affront, but he didn’t say anything.

‘Can you sing, girl?’

She shook her head.

‘Recite poetry? Perform the
Carnatakam
?’

She shook her head again.

‘Speak. I would hear your voice,’ Tariq commanded.

She swallowed her temper and said evenly, ‘Exalted One, I have no poetry and I do not know the classical royal dances. My songs and dances are of the people.’

‘How dull.’ He looked at his advisor. ‘She’s a peasant, Hanook. Do they not teach their daughters anything of value in Baranasi?’ He pulled a face. ‘I do not like her voice either. It has no music.’

‘Exalted One, this is a strategic union. You do not like most of your wives.’

‘True enough. I’m bored with all fourteen of them. Are you sure I cannot wed the girl from Gatioch as well?’

‘Tradition says one per year, Exalted One. The Gatioch girl will still have nipples like flowers next year.’

Tariq
harumphed
, and went back to studying Ramita. ‘Have you anything to say on this?’ he asked eventually.

She did. Hanook threw her a warning look, but she ignored him. ‘Yes, I have this to say. I am an Omali of Lakh, and I will keep my faith. My children will know their father, and be tutored in the gnosis, with skilled tutors imported from the north, even Yuros if need be. And I will
not
dwell helpless in the zenana. I will have my own annex of the palace, away from the Dome so I may continue to learn the gnosis. If you wish to father children upon me, you will come to my bed, not me to yours.’

Her words echoed about the chamber, and when she stopped speaking, a cold silence enveloped the room. She could almost feel the tautness of the bowstrings above. Hanook’s face turned grey, and Tariq was staring at her like she’d grown horns.

He’s probably never had anyone dictate terms to him since he was legally a child.

She found she didn’t care what he said or thought. It felt good to have stated her position, and if he didn’t want her after all, some part of her would be for ever relieved.

Tariq began to drum his fingers again on the arm of his throne, louder and faster, until finally he stopped. He let out his breath. ‘She has sharp teeth as well as a sharp voice.’ His tones were neutral, with just the hint of fear, as if the enormity of marrying a woman who had the gnosis had only just become apparent. ‘Even putting aside the fact that a ruler does not go cap in hand to his wife’s chamber hoping to be given entry, we are forced to reconsider the earlier question: if she is not to be constrained beneath the Dome as you said earlier, how am I to protect myself and my court against her?’

Hanook fired a reproachful look at Ramita. ‘I am sure some compromise can be reached.’
You need to give ground here, girl
, his expression added.

’I will not have the safety of my children threatened,’ she replied stubbornly.

Tariq glanced at the balconies above, and for a heart-in-mouth second she feared he was going to give some signal that would end this debate instantly. Or perhaps he would simply lock her up and give her no choices.

Hanook held up a placatory hand. ‘Will you allow me to find a compromise on this matter, Great Mughal?’

Tariq stared down at Ramita, his eyes cold. ‘Very well, old friend. You have three days to come up with something, or I shall marry the Gatioch princess.’ He looked at Hanook with the ghost of fondness. ‘Three days, for your sake.

‘And for the sake of your kingdom, Tariq,’ Hanook said warmly.

Tariq grunted, got up and strode away.

*

The underground tunnel was a chillier place as Ramita and Hanook walked back to his palace.
Perhaps that’s just the frost coming off Hanook’s face
. Finally he turned his head and said, ‘I have had to pull upon every heart-string Tariq possesses to get him to even consider you as a bride. You risked it all with your demands.’

‘They are not unreasonable.’

‘Can you imagine the mobs the Godspeakers could whip up if you posture as if you were ruling Lakh, not Tariq? If you play up your differences, you will attract so much ill will that nothing could protect you. And you will drag me down with you!’

‘So instead I should meekly bare my throat?’

‘If a mob descends on your annex, you could not defend it, and nor could I! Only by showing submission to Tariq can you gain safety! If the Godspeakers and the people are convinced of our loyalty to Tariq, and your willingness to be nothing but a fruitful yoni, they will be willing to overlook your taint.’

‘My
taint
? Is that how you see it too?’

‘Of course not! I share that taint – I am
kin
to you! But Ramita, you
must
submit if we are to further our cause!’

She lifted her chin. ‘Then think of something that he and I will both find acceptable, or we will leave here and you will never see us again.’

32

Theurgy: Spiritualism

J
ANETTE DE
M
ERE
, S
PIRITUALIST

‘I don’t think this is a good idea,’ Cym whispered from beneath her cowl.

Zaqri replied.
in
to a place like this.>

Zaqri turned out to be right: the breaking in was simplicity itself. They simply joined the end of an incoming column, as all was confusion. They had both subtly changed their faces to match the Keshi look: a bigger nose, sharper chin and high cheekbones. Cym’s olive Rimoni skin was sun-darkened enough that she could have been local, especially wrapped in her sleeping blanket, which was as dirty as anyone’s and pinned in the Keshi way. Only their height set them apart, so they were both stooping a little.

The guards barely looked up as they shuffled by. They found a place to sit inside the refugee pen and tried not to attract attention, which turned out to be easy enough in a place where the struggle to secure food and water occupied what little energy the refugees had. They were near the latrines, which turned out to be badly dug, overflowing with raw sewerage and infested with sand-rats and crows.

Cym closed her eyes, covered her face and waited for darkness.

They ate from their own small store of dried meat, then Zaqri wrapped his arms about her and cradled her in a chaste embrace that slowly became sleep. The dismal nature of the camp killed any physical desire stone-dead, but his warmth anchored her, kept her here when she wanted so desperately to fly away.

She awakened in the chill of morning, lying on her side, moulded to his body. His hand was over her belly and she worried that he knew that she still hadn’t bled. That made her eight weeks gone. It would show soon. She had other fears too: their gnostic auras were apparently binding together. It was worse after sex, and it scared her.

She must have dozed again, because it felt like just a few seconds later when she was startled awake by trumpets and the crunch of hooves in gravel. She fumbled free of Zaqri and knotted her breeches about her waist, which felt tight and swollen. An old woman saw and gave her a hard, knowing look.

The camp came alive with movement and bustle. Fires smoked, pots emitted cooking smells and children squalled. They rose, wrapped in their filthy blankets and joined the hundreds of others pressing their faces through the wire, staring out at the Rondian Inquisitors. Four Acolytes were trailing the man who was obviously their Commandant. One of them was a grey-haired female with a face carved out of bone. The eleventh rider, the one they’d followed all the way into this Helish camp, was readying his horse, moving stiffly. They caught a glimpse of a drawn, pale figure with a shaven skull inside the hood.

‘He’s definitely one of us,’ Zaqri whispered in her ear.

‘A Dokken riding with the Inquisition? Impossible.’

‘Anything is possible in this world. Don’t draw attention to yourself, and cloak your aura, otherwise they may detect us if they look our way.’

She nodded mutely, straining her ears as the Commandant of the Inquisitorial Fist ordered his riders into line, then turned to the legion maniple commander. His voice carried across the stony ground. ‘I am Commandant Ullyn Siburnius of the Twenty-Third Fist of the Inquisition. Where is Tribune Gestryn?’

‘Commandant Siburnius!’ The maniple commander hurried forward, his face anxious and confused. ‘You were not expected until the third bell, Commandant …’ The look Siburnius returned withered whatever other protests he might have made. ‘Er, we are almost ready, sir.’

‘I don’t want to hear the word “almost”, Tribune. Assemble them, immediately!’

‘But I was told—’

‘Now, Tribune!’

Gestryn saluted, spun and began to bellow orders, sending his soldiers scattering. Some strode into the pens and began to herd adults towards the gates.

They were shouting something that sounded like
Ishpardi
to Cym. She looked at Zaqri as they retreated into the crowd.

‘A work detail,’ Zaqri whispered. He was looking around him carefully. He went off to talk to an older man, then returned a few minutes later to whisper, ‘Every few days a work group is assembled and taken away. They don’t come back. He says they’re kept at another place, a labour camp.’

Cym looked at him sceptically. ‘A labour camp? Out here?’

‘I know. I don’t think it’s likely either. But these are ordinary people – they don’t believe in evil, not truly. They try to rationalise things; they tell themselves that really bad things can’t really happen.’

Cym felt a sick lump in her belly. ‘Then what’s really happening? And why is that Dokken here?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ he admitted. ‘I have never heard of such a thing – Inquisitors and Brethren are mortal enemies. I don’t understand what’s going on here.’

After the work detail left there was no excuse to linger near the gates. There was little to do but watch and wait so they returned to their spot and ate furtively, trying not to attract the attention of gangs of Dhassan and Keshi men who prowled the interior of the pen, forcing those who looked vulnerable to surrender their valuables. The scenes when the Rondians brought in the sacks of dried lentils – the only rations they apparently provided – were ugly as the refugees fought tooth and nail over the meagre supplies.

After a while they noticed the remaining five Inquisitors outside the fences were hammering carved wooden rods into the ground. Gnosis surges started to prickle at their awareness.

‘What are they doing?’ Cym whispered.

‘Sealing the camp with wards,’ Zaqri replied. ‘To alert them if anyone escapes.’ He rubbed at his beard. ‘Typically, those sort of wards also disrupt scrying and communications – but why would they want to block scrying on a slave camp?’

‘We can still disable them and get out … can’t we?’ Cym tried not to sound worried.

‘We could … but if we fumble it, we’ll alert them to our presence.’ He sucked in a deep breath of smoky air and coughed. ‘We shouldn’t have come here,’ he admitted. ‘You were right after all.’

‘Of course I was right. I always am.’ She watched the Inquisitors work, wondering what to do. ‘If we talked to that Dokken, do you think he might tell us what is going on?’

‘I don’t know. I thought so at first but every time we see him, he’s cooperating so willingly.’

‘There’s something …
stupid
… about him though, isn’t there? It’s like he can’t tie his own bootlaces without help. Perhaps they’re controlling him somehow?’

‘If that’s the case, talking to him might be an even bigger risk.’

‘But we have to try something, right? Or just get out and move on?’

They shared another one of
those
moments: when a blank future without purpose loomed ahead, leaving them alone and adrift. ‘No,’ they said together, then, recognising what was happening, each stammered into silence.

After a moment, Cym ploughed on. ‘The spirit-walking … like I did in the Noose. I could do that to get close to him.’

Zaqri considered that, his face betraying his worry, then he nodded.

So they made a plan – a simple plan, that shouldn’t go too wrong. That night she lay on her blanket, Zaqri huddled over her, and she …

… breathed her soul out of her mouth. It left more easily than before, as if impatient with the bounds of flesh and gravity, and she shot into the air, taking the shape of an owl as she went, just in case anyone with gnostic sight was watching – the spiratus would be visible to such a one, but so long as it looked natural, they’d not realise what it was. She swooped low over the masses of huddled sleepers. Looking upwards, she got a fright when she saw a dome-like canopy of pale blue light covering the camp, then she realised that it was the Inquisitors’ wards, a mesh of thin strips of radiance visible only to gnostic sight. It was like a gauzy spiderweb, with lots of gaps, though they were all small – too small for a man-sized creature to go through, but easy enough for a bird-sized spiratus. She picked the biggest hole she could find and darted through.

Outside the dome of light, the vastness of the night called. She was pleased and relieved when no alarm was raised. Turning on a faint breeze, she headed for the barracks. They’d noticed that the eleventh rider didn’t mix with the Inquisitors but kept to himself in his own small mudbrick shed. The other cabins were bright with wards and enchantments, but his was quiescent, a dim mound in the darkness. She landed nearby, became a lizard and scuttled forward, unseen by the human guards.

There was no door – probably because the heat was suffocating even at night, especially for these Yurosian soldiers – and she reached the opening unchallenged. Her senses were quivering as she probed ahead, listening and sniffing. She found the Dokken sitting cross-legged on the floor of his hut, hood down, eyes vacant. His aura was a shifting mess of tendrils akin to Zaqri’s but his were somehow
raw
-looking. The periapt on his breast was so bright it was painful to look at, and different from any she’d seen. And Dokken did not use periapts anyway. Another mystery.

He turned his head and looked straight at her. ‘Who are you?’ His voice was a broken scratch, twigs on glass. There was a Lantric rune branded onto his forehead: a triangular shape, a delta.

She squeaked in fright and took a second to recover her poise. ‘I’m … No, who are you?’

‘Who?’ His bleak eyes grew larger. ‘I am.’ He stopped, tried again. ‘I am … I am … I am …’ His voice began to rise, his tones becoming fearful. ‘I am Delta,’ he suddenly announced, relief flooding his face. He sagged slightly, the energy in his expression dissipating. ‘Delta. I am Delta.’ Then his eyes focused again. ‘Who are you?’ he asked again.

She hesitated, then spoke. ‘I’ve been sent by Zaqri of Metia.’ It was a faint hope but not unreasonable, that this Dokken would recognise the name of a Dhassan packleader.

‘Zaqri.’ The Dokken’s face betrayed that he knew the name, then twisted as an internal struggle took place. His eyes became sly. ‘I know that name. Zaqri. Yes, I know it.’ His fleshy face looked sickly this close, and she could sense there was something wrong with him, like a disease emanating from that horrifically strong periapt. He gripped it tightly and sparks crackled down his arms.

She glanced backwards instinctively and that one look saved her.

A blast of blue fire ripped through the air from the shadow of the next hut. Normal reflexes couldn’t have helped, but she was in astral form, quick as thought, and in the instant before the bolt struck she was arrowing upwards, her shape a blur of light. More bolts arced out of the night from three other points while Delta’s harsh voice rose to a howl, screeching, ‘Master! Beware! Enemies!’

Rukka mia! He must have been alerting the Inquisitors even as he talked to me!

She cast a glance back over her shoulder and was horrified to see three Inquisitors rising into the night, armoured shapes riding the winds, blasting at her with needles of energy.
Hel, they’re fast!
But they were flesh-bound, and she was spirit. A naked soul was hyper-vulnerable to the gnosis, but it was also blindingly quick and she flashed away from the camp, leading them into the hills, where she made sure she lost them before heading back towards the dome of light and finding a gap in the web and—

—was suddenly inside her body again, coughing and spluttering as she jerked upright. Zaqri caught her, pinned her to his chest and held her tight. ‘Easy, easy, lass, you’re back. It’s all right.’

After a few moments catching her breath, she looked towards the Inquisitors’ huts. Torches were flaring into life and men shouting, an uproar that was waking the camp; they could see armoured figures milling about and hear Siburnius’ voice loud in the darkness.

She buried her head against Zaqri’s chest, shaken and scared now the immediate danger was gone. Exhaustion filled her, a backlash from so much concentrated use of power, and she stayed there until she stopped trembling.

‘What happened?’ Zaqri asked, his voice low.

‘He betrayed me to them – he pretended to be talking, but all the time he must have been calling them. I tried to lead them away – I’m sure I lost them before I came back.’

He stroked her hair. ‘Well done. So you actually spoke to him?’

‘Yes! He recognised your name, and said he was called Delta – but that’s not his real name. It’s just what they’ve branded him, on his brow.’

Zaqri’s eyes narrowed. ‘They’ve
branded
him?’

‘Yes. It’s barbaric.’ She slurped some water. ‘I think they’re controlling him somehow. He was strange, like he couldn’t think properly for himself. He spoke really slowly, almost like he was drugged.’ She described the strange periapt he wore. ‘I think it was killing him, burning him up.’

Zaqri looked perplexed. ‘Our kind don’t use them. And I’ve never heard of such a thing.’ Then he looked hard at her, and his hand slid over her stomach. ‘We need to talk.’