Mage's Blood

29

Envoy

The Leviathan Bridge

For all the destruction its making has enabled, I still am in awe of the Bridge itself, and I say this without reservation or cynicism (no, really). What a thing it is, this wonder Antonin Meiros wrought! To stand upon that span, hundreds of miles from land, is the stuff of dreams. If I close my eyes, I can still hear the waters roar and feel the thrumming of the stone beneath my feet. I have seen wonders, palaces and Dom-al’Ahms and holy places … but it is that Bridge that I will remember until my last breath.

MYRON JEMSON, ARGUNDIAN, IN JOURNEYS EASTWARDS, 901

Hebusalim, on the continent of Antiopia

Jumada (Maicin) 928

2 months until the Moontide

Ramita sat upon a stool watching the bustle in the main courtyard of Casa Meiros. Huriya sat at her feet, watching just as avidly as men scurried like monkeys on bamboo scaffolding, lashing the thick poles together to create a temporary pavilion. Tradesmen were filling the kitchens with meat, spices, lentils, olives and flour. The air was rich with baking breads and slowly simmering spiced meats. It had been like this for the past week, but this finally was the day. Her husband was coming home, and he was bringing his important guests, ferang envoys. She was clad in a new sky-blue salwar, the colour Meiros favoured most. Though she was enduring morning sickness, her condition was not obvious yet.

But soon my belly will grow and grow, like Mother’s does, and I will turn into an elephant …

Someone below shouted and silk curtains of soft yellow and white to block the sun unfurled down the sides of the pavilion. Musicians were setting up and tuning in a corner. Olaf was shrilling orders, wringing his hands, the stress almost too much for him.

It was weeks since Ramita had seen Kazim, and she could scarcely remember that madness of desire. Her husband was kindness and gentleness embodied; why had she ever wanted another man? What had she risked everything for: a few frantic couplings? Ridiculous – suicidal …

There was still no sign of any manifesting of the gnosis, and it gnawed at her. How long would it be before her husband or his daughter suspected the truth about her pregnancy? Though Meiros’ visits home had been sporadic these last few weeks, Justina was increasingly present, personally inspecting every tradesman and servant who entered, frightening them all with her cold manner and visible use of the gnosis as she rummaged through their minds. Even Huriya dared not bring Kazim or Jai here now.

To her surprise she missed Meiros’ company. Though she could not say she truly loved him, he made her feel safe. And she increasingly craved the animal heat of mating; perhaps the pregnancy was turning her into an earthier being. Though he was not the lover she’d dreamed of, her husband pleased her – and at least lying with him wouldn’t have her stoned to death.

‘You should run,’ she told Huriya daily, but her adopted sister refused, promising to stay with her no matter what. So she hung on, in hope and desperation that somehow the babies had been fathered by Meiros. Or perhaps she was just paralysed by fear.

She feared Justina’s eyes upon her too. She had shown no interest before, but now she was watching her all the time. Perhaps she envied her state? Not that she was any more pleasant; she never included Ramita in her afternoon teas or gaily-lit parties in her private garden, where she and a stream of magi women could be heard singing and dancing to music from both continents. Instead Ramita and Huriya were left to rot in their chambers, excluded, but always watched.

Her only consolation was in her faith: daily she offered long, intense prayers to Sivraman and Parvasi: for her family back home in Baranasi; for Jai and Kazim, who she hoped had seen sense and fled; for the manifestation that would prove the children were Meiros’. Mostly she prayed for her death, should her perfidy be revealed, to be swift and painless. She could not say if the gods heard her.

‘Ramita, there you are.’ Justina Meiros stepped from the archway behind them, her flawless face cowled. ‘You should already be inside; come,’ she ordered peremptorily, and led the way. The girls trailed in her wake as they made their way down to the pavilion. They were seated beneath the cool drapes just in time. Ramita’s place was at the front, to the right of the main seat where her husband would sit. On his left would be the guest of honour, this Rondian man Belonius Vult. The chairs were massive, carved and cushioned, draped with yellow and blue silks. She had a moment of fright, that she, a market-girl of Baranasi, was to eat with these lofty people. It was not twelve months since she had been taken from her home. It was frightening, how quickly life could change.

Jos Klein led an honour guard into the pavilion, and Ramita felt a small flutter of comfort when her husband appeared behind the guards. His eyes sought hers. He looked tired but energised. His shaven skull gleamed in the soft light within the tent, and his short beard jutted in exactly the style she had cut it. She forced a fond smile to her lips. This is my husband, whom my secret lover wants to kill. The thought made her hand quiver and she buried it deep.

Behind Meiros glided a silver-maned man with a trim beard and cheeks smooth as a child. He carried himself with the utmost elegance. His imperial purple robes were rich and lined with gold. Presumably he was the Imperial Legate, Belonius Vult. Behind him was a man she assumed must be Governor Tomas Betillon, a wary, sullen-looking man with wobbling jowls wearing half-armour. Huriya said there’d been several attempts on his life; she’d picked up tales in the markets about this man stealing children from the streets. But everyone here was according him careful deference.

Following them were a dozen more men, eight Ordo Costruo magi and four Rondian magi, aides to the governor or the Imperial Legate. She rose to her feet as Meiros approached and he kissed Ramita’s cheek in greeting. ‘Wife, you look radiant,’ he whispered. He kissed Justina and turned to present the Rondians. ‘Lord Belonius Vult, let me present my wife, Ramita.’

She took a breath, curtsied, and proffered a hand, keeping her eyes lowered. She felt a cool grip and lips pressed against her hand. ‘Honoured, lady, my congratulations on your impending motherhood.’ Vult’s voice was pleasant and smooth. When she looked up, his eyes measured her distantly.

‘And my daughter, Justina Meiros,’ Meiros continued.

Vult turned to take Justina’s hand, but she withheld it, to Ramita’s surprise. Vult acted as if nothing had happened. ‘Lady Justina, a pleasure to see you again. Has it truly been twelve years?’

‘During the last Crusade, Lord Vult: I believe I was trying to prevent your men from sacking a healers’ refuge.’ Justina’s voice was chilly.

‘I recall it well. War is a terrible thing, lady. A shocking waste.’

‘Yes, it is always far easier to plunder uncontested.’ Justina turned to Betillon. ‘I have met Governor Betillon before. Introductions are not necessary.’ Her look was as icy as her voice. Betillon grunted dismissively and ignored her. He peered curiously at Ramita, but made no move to greet her.

Antonin Meiros ignored the awkwardness and gestured for them all to sit. Drinks were served; Ramita had sherbet, but Justina had no compunction about drinking alcohol with the men. The conversation revolved about the loquacious Belonius Vult, who was full of anecdotes: Rondian aversion to spices; the quality of Dhassan jewellery; the forthcoming wine harvests; the difficulty with headwinds this month flying over the ocean, and other trivialities, which he directed at Meiros, Justina and Betillon. Antonin clearly found his company genial, and even Justina seemed to thaw somewhat.

By contrast, Betillon was a disgusting eater and drank heavily. He barely followed the conversation. His eyes trailed lingeringly over Justina’s breasts and occasionally Ramita’s, but he was not openly rude. The rest of the table interacted congenially, but pinned between Antonin and Justina, Ramita said little and ate less. Finally Belonius Vult addressed a question to her, asking with a smile, ‘And when are we to expect your happy event, Lady Ramita?’

‘Early next year, lord,’ she replied, flustered at being noticed.

‘Ah, so you are, what, two months along?’ Vult remarked. He turned to Meiros. ‘Tell me, Antonin, is it true what they say about the wives of Ascendants and gestational manifestation?’

Antonin smiled proudly. ‘We are awaiting the first signs. It could happen any day.’

Vult inclined his head and looked at Ramita. ‘And are you prepared for the manifestation, Lady Ramita? Are you ready to become a mage?’

‘I don’t know how any woman could call herself ready for such a thing, milord,’ she answered carefully, and Meiros nodded approvingly at this answer. Beyond him, she saw Betillon glowering in silent contempt, no doubt at the thought of another non-Rondian gaining the gnosis in this manner.

Meiros caught and deflected other questions cast her way, then she was packed off to allow the men to discuss their business. Justina left too, gracing Vult and her father with a curt inclination of the head.

Huriya met Ramita outside. ‘How was it?’ she whispered.

Ramita glanced at Justina. ‘It went well, I think.’

Justina looked back at her coldly. ‘Well enough.’ She looked like she wanted to spit. ‘I loathe breathing the same air as that bastard Betillon.’ She stomped away without a backwards glance.

Huriya whispered in Ramita’s ear, ‘She’s grumpier every day.’

‘I think she’s sad,’ Ramita commented.

‘I think she’s a bitch,’ sniffed Huriya. ‘Perhaps her lover has dumped her.’

‘What lover?’ Ramita wondered. ‘No one ever comes here.’

Huriya wrinkled her nose. ‘Who knows? She has her own apartment in the Domus Costruo. There’s someone, I’m sure – or there was.’

Ramita remembered Justina arriving with Rashid Mubarak at the Domus Costruo banquet and swallowed a nasty taste in her mouth.

‘Madam does not wish to be disturbed at the moment,’ Olaf said.

‘I don’t care, I need to see her,’ Ramita snapped. She shoved past the chamberlain and into Justina’s courtyard. Seeing the fountain where Alyssa had taught her Rondian while plundering her memories brought on a sweat. She rang the bell that hung in the garden, then sought shade. The air was dry, a desiccating southeasterly raking the city. Nothing moved between midday and sunset now; people slept, or lay in the shade and tried not to move. Even the plump purple flies grew dozy and slow.

Justina emerged looking as if she had just risen from her bed, though it was early afternoon. Her shapeless mantle looked like it had been thrown on and her feet were bare. She ran fingers through her tangled midnight tresses, yawned and asked, ‘Well, what is it?’

Ramita made a supplicating gesture. ‘Justina, I need your advice, please. It’s been two months and I have no sign of your “gnosis manifestations”. My husband is busy; he hasn’t had time to tell me what they are, what they look like. I need to know – it’s making me anxious.’

Justina Meiros rolled her eyes, but she sat on a stone bench and gestured for Ramita to join her. This close, her hair gave off a redolent scent, one Ramita recognised at once from the backstreets of Aruna Nagar. Opium. Her pupils were dilated and her movements languid.

Ramita wrinkled her nose and made to stand. ‘I’m sorry, mistress, you are engaged. I will go.’

Justina caught her arm and pulled her back down. Ramita realised she was naked beneath her mantle, and smelled of sweat and arousal. She edged away, wishing she had never come.

‘No, you’ve already interrupted me,’ Justina said in a slurred voice. ‘The manifestations can happen any time in the first trimester, according to the scrolls. At first you’ll think you’re ill, or hearing voices, then something’ll happen, a little accident, usually related to the element that you’ll be most closely bound to – you might set fire to something, or push your fingers into a wall. It’s like what happens to teenagers when they first attain their gnosis. I torched a prayer-book in a fit of temper when I was twelve. Something similar will happen to you.’ She slumped back against the wall.

Ramita rose, wanting only to get away. ‘Thank you. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’

Justina looked her with glazed, suspicious eyes. ‘That’s assuming your pregnancy is due to my father, of course,’ she said with slow hostility, ‘because the other reason nothing has happened yet could simply be that nothing will happen, because like your little maid you’ve been rukking some guardsman or servant while everyone’s back is turned.’ She stared at Ramita with the insolent appraisal of the drunk.

Ramita’s heart skipped a beat and it took all her strength to turn back and glare at Justina as if the suggestion were beneath her contempt.

Antonin Meiros came home properly two weeks later, late in Maicin. Ramita bathed his feet. Her belly felt tighter, and she could see it beginning to swell. Her mother had always got big early and she expected she would too.

‘Twins, or triplets?’ Meiros smiled, touching her belly fondly.

Ramita’s mind was full of anxieties: about Justina, about the babies and whose they were, about Kazim and Jai, about Huriya’s refusal to abandon her. But she kept her thoughts still and quiet. She smiled and asked him of his day.

Meiros was morose after the negotiations: ‘Betillon is a pig. His very presence undermines everything. Vult says the emperor wants to re-establish peace and trade, with new borders and a market between, in the no-man’s-land. It would sound reasonable were it not that Hebusalim is not theirs, that the Rondian Imperial Treasury is drowning in debt and there are already forty legions massed in Pontus. They will not keep their word.’

‘What will we do?’ Ramita asked anxiously.

‘We will move to Domus Costruo. No force on Urte can storm our Citadel without magi-support. Our priority is the safety of our families and the Bridge.’

‘Can you not stop the Rondians from crossing this time?’

Meiros sighed heavily. ‘The Inquisitors control Southpoint and Northpoint, my dear. The time for that is lost.’ He stroked his shaven scalp regretfully. ‘There are so many Rondians here permanently now; half of the Hebb have direct commercial links to them. They are all threatened by the shihad. Even if I could shut the Bridge, Salim’s armies would still run amok: he will slaughter anyone who has ever dealt with them. It would be a bloodbath. That cannot be allowed to happen. We must ride this out, protect who we can and pray for a return to peaceful trade when this period is over.

‘People forget all the Ordo Costruo have done for them: buildings, aqueducts, healing orders, and trade. The Bridge was the greatest agency for good this place had ever seen, and through it money has also flowed into Yuros. Emperor Constant must eventually realise that his crusades are cutting the throat of the goose that lays golden eggs. Vult himself acknowledges that these invasions have almost bankrupted the empire. I am sure he will come to reason and seek peace – I know it.’ He stroked her tight belly. ‘And our children will preside over that peace, my dear wife.’

She forced a smile. Her husband’s hopes sounded blind to her, but what did she know of statecraft? For a second, his shaven head looked like a skull. Then he yawned cavernously and his head fell forward onto his chest. He started, and looked down at her. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, I’m falling asleep. Will you help me to my room?’

She helped him to his bed but when he rolled on his side and offered her a space, she feigned illness and bid him goodnight – not because she had not wanted to stay: the idea of curling under his protective wing and pretending all was well was very attractive. But to stay felt like an act of betrayal, both to him and to herself.

This is the man my lover wants to kill.