Mage's Blood

20

This Betrayal

The Trimurthi

The Holy Trinity of the Omali faith are the three principal deities, known collectively as the ‘Trimurthi’. Baraman is the creator, but his great task has been accomplished and he receives little direct worship. By contrast, Vishnarayan, who protects and sustains creation, and Sivraman, who presides over death and rebirth, are widely worshipped among the Omali.

ORDO COSTRUO HEBUSALIM, CHAPTER

Hebusalim, on the continent of Antiopia

Thani (Aprafor) 928

3 months until the Moontide

Kazim is here. She had dreamed of hearing those three words, had prayed to hear them – and now she had, they had destroyed her fragile peace. Over these four short months she had gradually let go of her old life and found some balance in her new one; she could go whole days without thinking of home. Her husband, at first so repellent, felt like a haven of safety.

But now it all came crashing back in on her: Baranasi’s tangled alleys, the hurly-burly of her people, the warmth of her mother’s arms, the laughter in her father’s voice, the clamour of her siblings. And Kazim, on the rooftops, kissing her. Kazim, gazing up at the moon, daydreaming of travel and adventure, recounting his street battles with the other boys, or some last-ball victory at kalikiti. The warmth of his arm around her shoulders, the musky scent of his body; the feel of his whiskers on her cheek. She had been in love with Kazim all her life, but the thought of seeing him terrified her.

Her husband was gentle and considerate, but he was a mage: he could pluck stray thoughts from her mind at will. Just one idle thought of Kazim could doom him. She began to picture her husband’s rage if he found her with another man, a mere human. What might he do to Kazim, or Huriya and Jai? She was almost paralysed with fear for them all.

She and Huriya spent hours together, their conversation swirling about wildly as they made and discarded a thousand plans: flight into the wilds; begging her husband on her knees to dissolve their marriage and let her go; imploring Kazim to leave … she even spoke wildly of killing herself, so that Kazim would give her up once and for all.

Huriya’s ideas vacillated just as madly: one moment she was indignant that their brothers had come to spoil their rich exile from the drudgery of Aruna Nagar Market; the next she was voicing murderous thoughts of slitting throats and escaping into the night.

Worst of all was when Ramita was alone with her husband. She was terrified of him catching her frantic thoughts, so she pleaded illness, then had to endure his concern. He came to her chamber, clearly wishing to lie with her, but she pleaded tiredness and he left, puzzled and disappointed.

Finally Huriya hatched a plan, and next morning, Ramita begged Meiros for the right to go herself to the old Pandit Omprasad’s mandir to pray. ‘Please, lord,’ she whispered, ‘I wish to make an offering each day for a child. I dreamed this would be the only way.’

Meiros looked sceptical. ‘You take your superstitions too seriously, Wife. What will aid your quickening is persistence. And eating well,’ he added, eyeing her half-touched bowl.

‘Please, Husband. Huriya goes there often. It is quite safe.’

‘It might be safe for her, but she is not Lady Meiros.’ He looked doubtful, and as he stared at her she felt her mouth go dry, her heart hammering. ‘You are working yourself into a state over this. Cannot that priest-fellow come here as before?’

‘The mandir – it is very sacred …’

‘Is it? Oh, very well – but just once!’ He thought for a moment, then said gently, ‘Wife, if it would please you, I will have a small shrine built here, for you to pray to your gods.’

She felt a horribly guilty twinge inside. A few weeks ago she would have been overjoyed that he acknowledged her beliefs, but now it was just an impediment to her seeing Kazim. She tried to look pleased. ‘Thank you, Husband,’ she said, her voice low.

He frowned. ‘Perhaps this visit will calm you down. You have been temperamental these past two weeks, Wife.’ He stroked her hair. ‘Don’t be anxious. All will be well.’

She bowed her head, swallowing her fear.

Jos Klein stomped into the mandir, followed by five soldiers, and glared about the tiny enclosure. The stones were fouled by pigeon droppings and rotting berries from the cherry tree in the corner of the tiny courtyard. The shrine was a six-by-six-foot pillared square, roofed, open on three sides. Inside sat a rough-hewn statue of the god, just the shape of a sitting man smeared in dyed paste, identified only by a Siv-lingam and engraved trident. Before it was a sandbox filled with burnt-out incense sticks and marigolds. Smoke rose from a small cooking-fire Omprasad was tending in the corner. There were two other men in priestly orange sitting with him, with the same tangled, ashy hair and beards, but they were younger and fitter-looking.

Klein glared at them. ‘Who are these?’

Huriya answered quickly, ‘They are “chela”, Captain, initiates of the Omali. They have been here a few weeks now. Morden has met them.’ The soldier nodded nervously when Klein looked at him.

‘Get them out of here,’ Klein said, pointing to a middle-aged Lakh man and his family praying before the central shrine. They looked too frightened to protest, but stared curiously at the girls as Morden ushered them away.

Ramita was so afraid she could barely move. She kept her vision focused on the Sivraman idol and a stream of prayers poured from her lips as she fell to her knees before it. Huriya wriggled in beside her and they prayed fervently for several minutes. She felt ill with tension and lack of food.

‘The soldiers will get bored in a minute and go and sit by the gates,’ Huriya whispered. She pulled back her hood and called loudly, ‘Chela, pray with us!’ As the two young priests shuffled towards them, Huriya whispered, ‘I’ve been doing this every day so that Jos’ soldiers are used to it.’ She sounded excited, as if this were some marvellous adventure.

The initiates knelt between the side pillars. Ramita’s gaze flickered to the man who knelt beside her and her throat almost seized up as Kazim stared back at her, a world of longing in his eyes.

‘Ramita,’ Jai whispered from the other side, but she had eyes only for Kazim.

How changed he looked! His beard was fuller, his skin more weathered. His hair – well, clearly that was disguised by the ash, but it was longer, a real mess. She yearned to reach out and comb it with her fingers. And his eyes – oh, his eyes, so clear, pure, so full of light.

‘Mita,’ Kazim whispered and the timbre of his voice, full of longing, of the anguish of hope, vibrated through her. ‘Mita, are you well?’

She nodded mutely, not trusting herself to speak. She glanced at Jai; his face was altered too. They both looked more mature, more manly. They had clearly been through much.

‘Ahem,’ coughed Huriya. ‘Let us pray.’ She spoke in Lakh. ‘You can talk, but look like you’re praying! We’ve only got a few minutes, so get on with it!’

Ramita wished she could reach out and touch him. ‘My love,’ she whispered, ‘are you well?’

‘Now that I have seen you. Huriya has told Jai of how you suffer, and it tears my heart.’

‘Oh, it isn’t so bad. I endure.’ What had Huriya been telling them?

‘You have such courage – I don’t know how you manage to be so brave. But we will rescue you! I promise with all my heart – I promise on my Immortal Soul, I will take you away from this.’

She didn’t know what to say. She stared at him while tears rolled down her cheeks and Jai loudly chanted ridiculous things, snatches of prayers, folk songs, even lists of market goods. She wished she could hug them both to her for ever.

Kazim told her he was living behind a Dom-al’Ahm, and learning to fight – and he promised there were men dedicated to stealing her away from Meiros when the time was right. ‘If that swine Klein weren’t here we’d do it now, but with a battle-mage to confront we can’t take the risk.’

She blinked. ‘Klein is a mage?’

Huriya whispered, ‘He is – third-ranked, he tells me. That is quite powerful.’

Ramita felt even more nervous, but Kazim sounded confident as he planned out loud. ‘If you can come back tomorrow, we might be able—’

‘Lord Meiros forbids it. Next time, and all times in the future, I am to bring the pandit to Ramita at Casa Meiros,’ Huriya answered.

Kazim groaned. ‘Does he suspect?’

‘No, he is just paranoid. I am amazed he allowed this visit, but Ramita was the perfect actress. Next time, one or both of you must come with Omprasad. You will be allowed into the public area, but we will find a way to get you into our quarters.’ Her voice took on a lascivious tone. ‘We’ll find a way to get you two lovers alone.’

Ramita stared into Kazim’s eyes, the thought of all that could yet be overwhelming her. She bowed her head and prayed through a rain of tears.

To see her, to see her weep, was almost too much. Seconds felt like hours; every word was heavy with meaning. But too soon their time was up. Jos Klein’s massive frame cast a shadow over them as he bade them come, and Ramita furiously wiped her tear-streaked face. Kazim carefully averted his eyes from the battle-mage. He wished fervently he had his blade, but he also remembered the contemptuous ease with which Klein had pummelled him in Baranasi without even resorting to magic. If he was recognised, it would go very badly, so instead, he hunched over pathetically, not even watching as the girls left. Jai, who’d danced before the man at the wedding, was just as frightened, but neither was recognised, and in seconds, Ramita and Huriya had vanished through the gates to the mandir.

Once certain they were gone, Jai collapsed. ‘By all the gods! I was sure he would recognise me!’

Kazim felt the same dizzying relief. ‘Me too – he’d have remembered you for certain without the beard. And I just had to pray the dirt and turban were enough!’ He glared at the gate, where the family banished earlier were peering in curiously. ‘Why won’t Rashid kidnap her from here?’

Jai put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Patience, Kazim: we will manage. You heard Huriya: she can get us inside Casa Meiros.’

‘Yes, I heard her.’ His heart was burning in his breast. ‘I bet Rashid didn’t help today because he would have had no opportunity to kill Meiros.’

Jai glanced at him. ‘They can’t be serious about that,’ he whispered.

‘They better be, for I am!’ Kazim said fervently. He looked up and swore, ‘Ahm, hear me: I curse Antonin Meiros. He will die at my hand: I swear it.’

Huriya briefed Kazim and Jai the day before they were to visit Casa Meiros for the first time. She showed them the palm of her left hand, which was etched with strange patterns. ‘See these lines? They allow me to open the doors that separate each part of the House. I can get us into most places, but not into Meiros’ rooms; only Ramita can go there. But I have a plan. Meiros says we can use a place in the private courtyard as a shrine. We’ve taken Omprasad to Ramita’s room to wash him, so I’m sure we can get you in too – as long as you look harmless. So make sure you do – and you must be careful.’

Kazim knew how well Huriya loved her material comforts, so for her to so actively aid them spoke volumes of her love for him and Ramita. ‘Ahm will reward you, sister,’ he said appreciatively.

It was with bent backs and ashen hair that they tottered beside the oblivious Omprasad the next morning. Emir Rashid had spoken to the old pandit, and now he truly believed Jai and Kazim were his pupils. His vacant face occasionally became confused when he looked at them, but he gave no trouble; ganja and a flask of fenni were enough to reconcile him.

At the gates to Casa Meiros, Jos Klein himself looked them over, but not too closely, and with no sign of recognition. A stony-faced guard searched them for weapons, but they’d not been so foolish as to bring any. Then they were through, and his thoughts rebounded, as they had all that sleepless night, to Ramita, and he felt his manhood stiffen.

A good job the soldier hadn’t patted down that weapon, he thought, then told himself, Be calm, you probably won’t get to do more than look at her, for Ahm’s sake!

But when he saw her, clad in a shimmering silk salwar, with jewellery kissed by sunlight, it was all he could do not to prostrate himself. She and Huriya wore identical white salwars, but Huriya’s dupatta scarf was orange, while Ramita’s was green. He followed in a daze as Huriya led them all into the inner courtyard, touching the handles of the doors, then pausing until they slid open silently. She showed them a brand-new shrine, which had been purchased intact and concreted against the north wall. A newly carved figure sat within, of Sivraman and his consort Parvasi, with baby Gann-Elephant upon her knee. The detail was rough but not unattractive. Before it, a new Siv-lingam sat, gleaming in the shade. Staring at the phallic idol did nothing to calm his need.

There were a couple of Hebb maidservants watching, but apart from these onlookers, they were alone. As they knelt before the idol, the women in front, Huriya whispered in Lakh, ‘The Master is at the Domus Costruo, miles away.’ Kazim felt a thrill run through him.

Omprasad led them in prayer, chanting on and on in a droning voice, until the servants lost interest and went back to their tasks. The pandit’s wavering voice filled the courtyard as he invoked all the gods, one by one. By the time he was finally done, Kazim thought he might die of longing. When Ramita rose and he met her eyes, all he could feel was his own need, echoed in her soft eyes.

Huriya led them to another courtyard, where food was laid upon a small trestle. She invited the three ‘holy men’ to sit and eat. Kazim felt a crushing disappointment as she and Ramita departed: was this to be just a cruel tease? But they returned, and his heart pounded when he saw they had swapped dupattas. Huriya, mimicking Ramita perfectly, said, ‘Omprasad, perhaps one of the chela could bless our rooms?’ She pointed at Kazim. ‘It will take only five minutes – I can see you are hungry.’

Ramita stood, pretending to be Huriya, bowed slightly to Kazim and indicated that he follow her. She touched a doorknob, which flickered with light as the wooden panel slid aside and they entered a corridor of cool and shade. He stepped quickly to her as she turned and pulled her to him, his mouth finding hers as she crushed herself against him. He lifted her, pressing her against the wall, drinking in her taste, the feel of her mouth, her tongue, her body.

She jerked her mouth away. ‘This way, next room,’ she panted, and then she was kissing him again as they slid along the wall and fell through the curtained doorway onto a low bed, into soft sheets and a mattress that swallowed them up.

He pulled up her salwar as they wrestled and grasped her waist. She moaned into his ear as he lifted the skirting above her waist. Her face was frantic as he tugged off her leggings. She looked as if she might say something, but there was no time. He fell upon her, pulling up his kurta and freeing his rigid member, and kissed her mouth as he pushed himself inside her. She stiffened in pain until he reached the wetness within, then sobbed into his mouth as he filled her, spreading herself wide, gripping his waist with her legs. He plunged frantically: flesh slapping flesh, frantic gasps, an eruption boiling through his body, fighting to keep it inside for just a split-second longer, but it was all too much, too much, and he groaned in agony as his seed gushed and he was gasping, weeping, into her face, ‘I love you I love you I love you …’

They gazed into each other’s eyes, panting, skin slick, souls bared. It felt like for ever, but it could only have been minutes before they heard Huriya’s voice, still mimicking Ramita: ‘They are just finishing, I’m sure.’

He cursed, so little time … He stood up unsteadily and dressed quickly, watched her do the same. The wet stain filling the crotch of her leggings was hidden when she pulled her salwar back down. She looked bereft already.

‘I will come again soon, and we will get you out of here, I swear it,’ he whispered.

She gave a hesitant smile and pushed him out of the door. ‘Go.’ She grasped his hand quickly. ‘I love you.’ Then she followed him out again.

Huriya rose, a secret smile on her face, and raised her voice so anyone listening would hear her. ‘Offerings must be made here daily for a week so that the shrine is properly sanctified. One or both chela must come here tomorrow at this hour. That will be all.’

Kazim struggled to regain his breath as he met Ramita’s eyes. All his feelings for her were still boiling inside him, unsated by their brief encounter. Tomorrow, he mouthed and she nodded, looking nervous now. Omprasad led them, bowing their way out, until they were blinking in the dusty streets and fighting their way through crowds, buffeted by noise and odour.

Jai caught Kazim’s shoulder. ‘Did you—?’

Kazim nodded.

‘I hope you can make good on all your promises to my sister, Kaz,’ Jai said in a low voice, the protective brother.

His tone rankled Kazim. ‘I have said so, haven’t I? I will slit that old goat’s throat and then I will marry her and be with her for ever. You will see.’ He felt exhilarated. It had been so brief a taste of the ecstasies they would share, but it meant so much, to have claimed her, to have made her his – his, no matter how often Meiros misused her. ‘You will see, brother!’ He cast off his temper, put an arm around Jai’s shoulder. ‘Sweet as honey, she was – sweeter, an apsara, a nymph of heaven.’

Ramita knelt in the privy, slopping water over her loins, trying to clean herself. She almost screamed when Huriya slid the door open. ‘Chod! Can’t I have some privacy?’ She felt on the verge of hysteria.

‘Shhh!’ Huriya frowned. ‘I’ve seen you pee and shit and vomit, and you’ve seen me do the same, and more – there is no such thing as privacy between us. So shut up and listen: I’ve asked for the bath to be filled. No one suspects a thing, I swear.’

‘My husband will be home soon! I’ve got to—’

‘Ramita, he won’t be home for hours – relax, it’s not even lunchtime. The only danger is you panicking. Calm down, I’ll be right back.’ She returned with a small drinking flask, the sort men carried. ‘Here, sip this. It’ll help.’

Ramita sat on the floor, trying not to cry, overwhelmed by the emotions she was feeling, part joy, part terror, part – something else she couldn’t name. She sniffed the flask. ‘What is it?’

‘Arak – sip it, just a little.’ Huriya knelt behind her and wrapped her arms around. ‘Are you okay?’

Ramita nodded. ‘I think so – I only meant to talk, maybe to kiss him, but he was all over me. It was … wonderful. Stupid, but wonderful.’ She swigged on the arak and reeled, blinking.

Huriya purred, ‘That’s my girl. Better than that horrible husband of yours.’

Ramita tried not to think about that. Finally she managed, ‘What if he senses—?’

‘Don’t worry, Mita: he’s taught you how to hide your thoughts, you know that. You’ll be fine – just think of other things.’ She giggled. ‘Even if he takes you himself.’

‘Huriya, this isn’t a game – the Amteh stone adulteresses – and I dare not even think what magi would do … I’m so scared …’

‘Oh, there!’ Huriya comforted her, stayed with her as she bathed, led her wrapped in towels to bed and sung her asleep. ‘I’ll tell your husband not to disturb you,’ she whispered as she dozed off. ‘Dream sweet dreams of your lover, whom you will see again tomorrow.’

It was the single most terrifying moment of Kazim’s life, to enter Casa Meiros the next morning and hear a rasping voice behind him, speaking Rondian. His throat locked up.

‘Who is this, Wife? Where is the old priest?’ The discordant voice was almost enough to make him bolt: it was Antonin Meiros himself!

‘These are his pupils, lord.’ Ramita sounded meek and uncertain as she watched Kazim and Jai sinking involuntarily to their knees. He’ll know – he’ll somehow know, and then …

They heard the old man sigh. ‘My reputation precedes me again. Get up, you two,’ he said, walking past them with barely a glance. ‘You say these fools have to come here every day this week?’ The old jadugara sounded sceptical. ‘More likely they just want free food.’

Huriya spoke up boldly. ‘Only this week, lord, until the full moon, when Sivraman is in the ascendancy. Your wife blooms at that time. It is auspicious.’

‘I am continually amazed at how many things are auspicious,’ he growled. ‘Oh, very well, if this makes you happy, my dear.’ He patted Ramita on the head as if she were a pet dog. ‘I must away. Get some repose, my dear: for someone who slept all afternoon and evening, you don’t look at all rested. Don’t worry so much. All will be well.’ And he strode away, his pale pate gleaming in the morning sun.

Huriya pulled up her scarf and led the way. Kazim let out his breath.

This time they had longer. The servants lost interest not long into the meaningless distraction of the prayers, so there was no need for scarf-swapping. Ramita opened the door and he walked in boldly, whispering his love for her even as he grasped her hair, stroked her face, the curves of her body. There was time to disrobe, to suckle her breasts and glide his fingers through her pubic hair into her soaked yoni. There was time to go slowly, to feel her climax against him, her body jerking spasmodically as the rapture on her face sent him over the edge. There was time to semi-swoon, in blissful oneness, to share their adoration. There was time to whisper of love and eternity before they had to part once more.

But there would be only four more meetings before the full moon rose. He didn’t know why Huriya had set this timeframe, but it must be necessary; she was cleverer than he. He comforted himself that they would strike soon, then he and Ramita could at last share their love openly, free from this nightmare.

Ramita lay in the warm bath alone, lost in reverie. She could still taste the ash from Kazim’s hair on her tongue. She could remember how her silent shuddering orgasms had felt, first as he slowly worked her with his fingers, and again as he thrust inside her. He was the Love-God incarnate. His magnificent body, his astounding face, the way he could melt her with a smile, everything about him was perfect.

But now came the waiting as they tried to find a new way to be together. This week was over, and next week her husband would return to her chambers, seeking to finally get her with child. New excuses and plans were needed. It would be best if she didn’t see him next week – she was a Full Moon woman, fertile when Luna was biggest in the sky, though women seldom matched the lunar cycle exactly. Yes, it would be sensible to not see Kazim next week – but how would she endure it?

‘Ramita!’ Huriya poked her head in the door. ‘Lord Meiros is home early – get up, get dressed – wear a saree, that’ll give you more time. I’ve told him you were bathing to refresh yourself.’ Then she was gone and she heard her below a few moments later, greeting the master with a string of babble.

Ramita picked out a saree, a yellow and orange one, and let the patience required in getting it folded just so calm her. She pinned her hair and was about to emerge when Meiros hobbled in. He stopped short and a smile creased his face. ‘Wife, what a lovely vision you are.’

She curtseyed, tried to look pleased. ‘My lord.’

‘Have those priest-fellows gone? Thank goodness; I’m getting sick of seeing them here.’ He limped to her and cupped her cheek. ‘Perhaps you can show me what they have done?’

She smiled uncertainly, took a breath and tried to pretend she was Huriya of the glib tongue. She led him to the private courtyard and showed him the shrine. Sweet frangipani and rose-incense filled the air – Huriya and Jai had finished it while she and Kazim were in bed. She explained to him what the triple-idol represented: the Death and Rebirth of Sivraman, the dutiful woman of Parvasi and the luck of Gann. She found herself enjoying it, displaying knowledge for one instead of always being the pupil, and Meiros showed every sign of being an interested listener.

‘And what is this again?’ he asked of the Siv-lingam.

She blushed. ‘The phallus represents the – um – the manhood of Siv. The lips about it are the yoni of Parvasi. It is auspicious, ah, for fertility.’

He chuckled drily. ‘What offerings are required?’

‘A paste with egg and cardamom and vermilion – the husband tips it over the phallus and then the wife, kneeling here, drinks it as it pours down this channel.’

He raised an astonished eyebrow, then summoned Olaf. ‘An egg, please, also cardamom and vermilion. And hurry – the hour may be auspicious.’

Ramita felt embarrassed to say the pooja words to her mildly amused and habitually sceptical husband, but he didn’t mock, and he mixed the paste with his own hands and tipped it over the phallus. She knelt and drank the yolk, praying intently to cover her fear that he would somehow know what she had done that morning. But he just pulled her to his feet, smeared her hands with the paste in his and kissed her forehead. ‘I take it the Omali do not consider it auspicious to copulate in their temples, like the early Sollans did?’

She looked shocked. ‘No!’

‘Good, because my old bones aren’t up to these hard marble floors.’ He led her upstairs to his room, and all the way she was terrified that somehow he would know, but he sat on the edge of the bed and watched her undress, as he liked to do, before pulling her onto him. She was startled to find herself responding more to his penetration, almost as if Kazim had loosened something inside her. It felt like betrayal, to climax with Meiros after the beauty of Kazim and yet, when the moment came, she could not stop it, and he swung her onto her back and rode her until he too came, and lay there afterwards, her body pinned beneath his. He gave her a foolish grin. ‘You take years off me, Wife. I have not enjoyed coupling this much for longer than I dare think.’

It was all she could do to blank her mind, to try to hide the guilt and fear and a confused sense of betrayal.

Kazim’s training had changed: now they also taught him how to disable or kill an unsuspecting victim. He had not imagined so many ways to take down an enemy: a stab to the kidneys or under the left armpit; a slash to the throat from behind; a knife driven up under the jaw into the brain; places where a single blow with a blunt instrument could stun. They showed him how to throw a variety of blades, and set him tests for silent movement.

They even gave him tips for fighting magi, which came down to a few simple principles: kill or knock them out with the first blow, and failing that, keep landing blows, causing pain, so they can’t focus their powers. Never strike the same place twice, for their instinctive shielding will block the second blow, then they will counter and you’ll be done for. Strike from behind when you can, silently.

It was simultaneously chilling and exhilarating, and Kazim lapped it up.

Most of the training was with Jamil, and he quizzed him ceaselessly about this secret order of Amteh magi. ‘Who are you, really?’ Kazim asked. ‘You’re a mage, but you’re not in the Ordo Costruo, though Rashid is. You and Molmar look alike – are you all cousins? Was my father one of you? Is this magic handed down father to son?’

Jamil didn’t shrug his questions away like usual. ‘Rashid has given me permission to answer some of these questions, but I must first swear you to secrecy: total secrecy, brother. You cannot even whisper this to your woman.’

When Kazim nodded cautiously, Jamil told him, ‘We are Hadishah.’ He whispered it, as men always whispered when they said that word.

Hadishah – the Jackals of Ahm: even the name was one of terror. The most extreme movement of the Amteh, and outlawed by the sultans, even in Kesh and Dhassa. But everyone knew the stories: it had began as the creed of the nomads of Mirobaz, and gradually evolved into a kind of religious secret police, answerable to no ruler. The Hadishah were the cloaked figures who burned down the houses of blasphemers and stoned adulterous women, punishing them on the word of rumour alone; they stole children to bring them up in their order; they were a million things, truth and fable entwined. For centuries the sultans of Kesh and Hebb had tried to stamp them out, but now, with Rondians in Dhassa and the Convocation disunited, they had a new legitimacy. They were the new heroes of the shihad.

Kazim found he wasn’t surprised, not deep down, but he was afraid. You didn’t walk away from the Hadishah. They had revealed themselves to him, so like it or not, he was now theirs to use until death.

And they have this magic, this ‘gnosis’, too!

Jamil cocked his head. ‘Guessed already, had you?’

‘I had wondered. What does it mean, you telling me this?’ he asked, watching Jamil carefully.

‘It means we want to help you do something we would also like to see done. When Meiros leaves his house, he is on guard, and the wards he has built into Casa Meiros make it impregnable. Once a street mob tried to assault it, but no one could climb the walls, though they look low, or break the doors, which look so flimsy – and Meiros wasn’t even there at the time. But your woman is the weak point. Your sister can get us inside, but not into Meiros’ tower. Only Ramita can get us in there.’

‘But how can you be magi?’

‘How indeed!’ Jamil laughed wryly. ‘In truth, the usual way. When the Ordo Costruo settled in Hebusalim, they took lovers – naturally their Sollan church condemned it, and so did the Amteh, but that wasn’t much good to the babies that resulted. Some were adopted by the Ordo Costruo, but we gathered many. Likewise, from time to time an isolated mage might vanish. We took them as breeding stock; to create our own magi. Like me.’ His voice was hard and flat. ‘I was born in one of these breeding houses.’

Kazim stared at him. ‘That’s disgusting!’

‘It’s perfectly logical. Magi are weapons, and we need such weapons to defeat the Rondians. But we have few bloodlines: hence the “family resemblance” you noticed.’

Kazim stared. ‘But you’re suggesting that my father—But that is impossible. He never – I—’ Chod! Is he really saying I am one of them?

Jamil went on implacably, ‘We ensure the brothels frequented by Rondian magi have fertile women. We kidnap, we set honey-traps, but male magi have thin seed, and female magi seldom conceive, so we have few bloodlines. So much inbreeding leads to many stillborns and deformities – my mother was born with no arms, and she died birthing me, at the age of forty-three, having given birth seventeen times.’ He spat. ‘This is what fighting such an enemy reduces us to. Every so often we capture another one, add some fresh flesh to the mix.’ He pursed his mouth in distaste. ‘I agree with you, Kazim: it’s vile, and sometimes it makes me sick. It’s as much a crime as anything our enemies perpetrate. But what are the alternatives? We must have the gnosis, and if we sin in the service of Ahm, that sin is forgiven: Victory justifies all.’

Kazim was horrified. ‘But my father … Was he one of you? Am I?’ he asked hoarsely.

Jamil met his eye. ‘No, Kazim, you are not one of us,’ he said.

Something in the way he said it gave Kazim pause, but still he exhaled in relief. The gnosis was too frightening to comprehend.

The Hadishah smiled grimly. ‘Just because you do not have the gnosis does not mean you need not defend yourself from it, Kazim. Next week Rashid will commence that part of your training.’

Ramita knelt before the shrine in her courtyard and tried not to scream. She had a mad urge to take a knife, bare her loins and carve in until her blood poured onto the stone. The urge had been growing daily since she had woken and found her sheets unstained. She had always been regular, always on time, and now, when she least wanted to have conceived, she was late.

I must bleed, she told herself, I must …

She wanted to keep this secret until she had worked out what to do, but it was impossible: Meiros was exhilarated when he learned her blood-towels were unstained, that she might be with child. He had been diligent in his ploughing of her the previous week, as powerful as if her prayers to Sivraman had somehow infused him with long-lost youth. He could scarce contain his excitement, and she tried to feign the same emotions, but she was certain she bore Kazim’s child – he had taken her when she was most fertile, and his seed was both youthful and non-magi. If she was pregnant, the child (or children) must certainly be his.

She tried to tell herself that it didn’t matter, soon she would be stolen away and the parentage of any children would be irrelevant, but she could not dismiss her fears so easily. Her husband was Antonin Meiros: he was invincible. No attempt to steal her could ever succeed, so barring a miracle, in nine months a dark-skinned, non-mage child would tumble from her loins and all of the wrath of a centuries-old jadugara would come crashing down on her and all she loved.

Please, Sivraman, please, Parvasi, please Gann-Elephant … make me bleed!

But she did not, not all week, nor into the next.