Mage's Blood

35

Souldrinker and Assassin

Heathen

To all religions, those outside the faith are heathen, an enemy whose very existence endangers the soul, for if the heathen can exist without God, their example undermines the faithful. Therefore all religions are at war with those who deny them. At least the Amteh are frank about their wish to put all heathens to the sword. The Kore mouths platitudes of tolerance, but murders just the same.

ANTONIN MEIROS, ORDO COSTRUO, 643

Hebusalim, on the continent of Antiopia

Jumada (Maicin) to Akhira (Junesse) 928

1–2 months until the Moontide

Kazim knelt in prayer, alone in the largest Dome-al’Ahm in Hebusalim, prostrating himself to heaven, asking Ahm’s forgiveness and blessing. The enormity of his mission was beginning to fully dawn upon him. It had never been just a game, not really, but training was not reality. To perfectly execute a killing stroke with a blunted wooden knife was not to drive a steel blade into a man’s heart.

Footsteps echoed in the vast space and he turned to see Rashid, Jamil and Haroun, striding across the stone floor. They were booted, despite the prohibition on footwear in an Amteh holy place, and part of him was offended by this subtle expression of Hadishah arrogance, but the thrill of trepidation was greater. Was this the moment?

It felt like he had been preparing for ever, that this daily cycle of exercise, eating, prayer and sleep was some kind of nightmare wheel that would never stop turning. The only person he saw every day was Haroun, who quietly read him the words of the texts, of self-sacrifice, of striking the necessary blow, of the evil of the unbeliever. He could have quoted them backwards now: the Only God is the One God who is Ahm. There is no salvation for the Unbeliever. But they were just words; only the act of killing Antonin Meiros could release him. Only through death could he live again, somewhere far away, just Ramita and him, with their children.

‘Kazim,’ said Rashid. ‘Come.’

He led them to a Hadishah safe house, deep below the house of a merchant near the gold souk. They were admitted silently, unquestioned and unchallenged. There was an underworld here, dealers in opium and gambling and money, all in the service of Ahm. The Hadishah ruled that world, and Rashid led the Hadishah. Kazim saw fear mixed with reverence in all who recognised him. He wondered what role the man lived openly; he had seen or heard virtually nothing since he came here, and Hadishah did not ask more than they were told.

They descended, the deepest into the earth he had ever been, to a dimly lit pillared cavern some hundred paces long. An old woman stood hunched over before a plinth with an open book on a stand. To Kazim’s amazement, Rashid fell to both knees and prostrated himself before her, and the others did the same. Kazim hastily followed suit. Who is she, that Rashid kneels to her?

‘At last,’ the old woman said. Her harsh, dry voice was oddly familiar. Despite himself, he lifted his head, and he realised that he did know her after all: the ancient crone in Aruna Nagar Market who had first told him that his fate was tied to Ramita Ankesharan. A thousand questions boiled up, but he swallowed them fearfully as her eyes pierced the gloom and fixed on him.

‘Sal’Ahm, Kazim Makani,’ she rasped. She rose and offered him her arm. The others, even Rashid, remained behind as she guided him to an alcove that she had obviously prepared. There was a brazier and a few artefacts – a knife, some small crystals that looked like large chunks of salt, and a pair of beaten copper goblets.

She motioned for him to sit on the richly patterned carpet that covered the floor, then, moving stiffly, sat cross-legged herself. ‘My name is Sabele,’ she told him. Her irises were yellowish, he noticed with a shudder – amber-coloured, like a jackal. ‘You may call me Grandmother, though that is not precisely correct.’

Grandmother? He studied her fearfully. She is another Hadishah mage. This is a test.

‘Rashid argued against my seeing you until after the deed is done,’ the crone told him. ‘He felt the risks were too great.’

‘What risks?’ he found the nerve to ask.

‘The risk that you fail and my presence is torn from your mind under questioning.’ Her voice was cool and emotionless. ‘I recognise the risk, but I overruled him.’

She overruled Rashid. He nodded nervously.

‘Rashid does not know all that is at stake. He knows what you are, but he does not know all that you are.’ Sabele leaned forward. ‘He does not know what we can gain if we play our hand correctly. He has chosen you for this mission because he deems you capable, because your sister or this Ramita will open the door for you, because you are Raz Makani’s son. But he does not know all that Raz Makani was.’ Her eyes met his intently. ‘Nor do you. It is time you learned.’

He was suddenly afraid of what he was about to be told.

‘Raz Makani was a descendant of mine,’ Sabele said, ‘as was Falima, his wife.’ Then she suddenly changed the subject. ‘Do you know the tale of the Rondian magi, of Corineus and his followers?’

Kazim nodded; Rashid had told him. ‘They gained their Shaitan-powers, destroyed the Rimoni and conquered Yuros,’ he replied.

The woman sniffed diffidently. ‘I was there,’ she told him, and he felt his skin go cold.

The woman’s eyes challenged him to disbelieve. ‘I was born in Yuros almost six hundred years ago. I was one of Corin’s followers; we drank ambrosia together. But only one third of the thousand people gathered there gained the gnosis and became magi. Fully one third died in their sleep. But that left another group: those who did not gain the gnosis that night, but who did not die. I was such a one.’

‘But—?’

‘Hear me out, boy.’ She put a finger to his lips. ‘Listen. Those of us who failed to gain the gnosis that night were left in a strange position: witness to the miracle, but not party to it. Those who had gained the power declared that we had been proven unworthy, and once they destroyed the Rimoni legions and established their rule, they turned their attention to us. Sertain and his cronies wrote a holy book for their new religion, the Kore, and in it they named us “Kore’s Rejects”. First they hounded us, then they went so far as declaring us heretics and condemned us to death.’ Her voice was harsh as she spoke, thick with remembered bitterness. ‘Our numbers dwindled, and we began to believe that we had been indeed found wanting. Within a decade, we were hunted almost to extinction. Only through our courage and loyalty to each other did we survive.’

She fell silent for a long while, as if pondering this thought. Kazim waited until he could not refrain from asking, ‘What happened then?’

She looked up. ‘An accidental discovery: I came upon a dying mage who had been caught unawares by a rival and left for dead. His body was ruined beyond healing and as I bent over him, he died. For an instant, as I was checking to see if he breathed, I thought I glimpsed a tiny puff of luminous smoke rising from his nostrils, and I inadvertently inhaled that vapour. It was his spirit, departing the corpse.’ She gestured at the brazier with a curling hand and caused the smoke rising there to twist, a prop to her tale. ‘I had inhaled his soul – and gained the gnosis. And because my fellows were as kindred to me, I shared my discovery, which paved the path to our salvation.’

Kazim stared. Rashid had never mentioned anything like this.

‘We know now that the ambrosia had not quite worked on us, the so-called Rejects: there had been a flaw in the mix, or maybe some unknown element in ourselves that had retarded the process, leaving us with the potential for the gnosis. To gain it fully required a trigger: a soul imbued with the gnosis.’

Kazim’s mind raced ahead and began to make connections as Sabele went on, ‘My fellow Rejects, desperate to gain the gnosis, followed my lead, but dying magi were not readily available. In desperation, some turned on each other, and to my sorrow, this worked: transformation could also be triggered by absorbing the soul of a Reject. Drinking a human soul replenished our powers, but it could not trigger the gnosis. In essence, we had to kill to gain our powers.’

Kazim watched her in sick fascination. She told me to call her ‘Grandmother’.

‘The magi learned of us, and they were appalled. They call us “Dokken”, “Souldrinkers”, “Shadowmancers”, and many other such names. A purge was declared, and the few of us remaining went into hiding. We have been hiding ever since.’

‘And you are my great-grandmother?’ Kazim asked fearfully.

‘Add a few greats, boy,’ she told him. ‘I fled here when the first windships came, hundreds of years ago.’

Hundreds of years – Ahm have mercy! Kazim forced himself to think, despite the hammering in his chest. He recalled what he’d been told of the magi. ‘Then the blood must have dissipated through the generations …’

‘These things work similarly: you are one-sixteenth blood, so the gnosis in you is thin, but not too thin. You will make a Shadowmancer, if you have the will.’

He gasped and jerked away. ‘But I don’t,’ he choked out, ‘I don’t want your Shaitan-gifts.’ All I ever wanted was to be was a good man, a happy man, with Ramita beside me.

‘If the children growing in her belly are Meiros’, then your woman has the gnosis already.’

‘The children are mine!’

‘Are you sure?’ She smiled indulgently. ‘If she had the gnosis, why would she want one who has not?’

‘She does not – and she loves me.’

‘She is falling under Meiros’ spell.’

‘Never!’

She looked at him pityingly. ‘You think she is unchanged by all she has seen and experienced here? You think, even if she could, she would return to the south? She is his prisoner, until you cut her free.’ She held out her hand, palm upward and let flame dance on it, and he found himself watching in fascination, unwillingly wondering what it would be like to be able to perform such miracles – to do it and not be damned. ‘Would you not like to pilot your own skiff, boy? Or rain down fire on the infidel? To bestride the world like a prince?’

His mind went back to the joy of soaring above the ground with Molmar, and he recalled the humiliation of being thrashed by Rashid in the arena. I would never be treated so again. I would be his equal … It was not a dream he could easily reject.

‘You say I would have to kill a mage and consume his soul?’ he asked, nauseated at the thought.

‘You keep on consuming souls to replenish expended energy,’ Sabele replied. ‘There is something in our condition that retards normal recovery. A mage can regain his powers by rest; we must feed on others.’

‘Are – are we—?’ Saying ‘we’ was almost the strangest part of this conversation. ‘Are we as strong as the magi?’

Sabele looked at him measuringly. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘that rather depends. Would you know more?’

He looked at her, scarcely able to think. This power she was offering was a dream, a fantasy – but to become a real power in this world, when the times were so perilous, was a Shaitan’s bargain that he surely could not afford to decline.

Ramita will understand, he told himself. I do this to grow stronger, my love, so I may protect you.

‘What must I do?’ he asked.

Ramita was alone in her courtyard. Meiros was away, attending yet another emergency meeting at Domus Costruo, and Alyssa Dulayne had taken Justina to a party. Ramita had been largely alone since that night at Southpoint and already it felt like something that had happened years ago to a different person. Only Huriya was left to her, but she was constantly away in the daytime and consumed with her own appetites at night. Ramita could hear the sounds of passion emanating from Huriya’s room even now. Jos Klein was intoxicated with the Keshi girl, constantly seeking her out. She is my sister, but I hardly know her any more.

She prayed Kazim and Jai were far away, far enough to survive Meiros’ wrath, even if things went badly. She had two glimmers of hope: one, that her children truly were Meiros’, or if they weren’t, that he might forgive her. She rehearsed over and over in her mind how she would beg his forgiveness: her next children would be his, this she would swear; she was so very, very sorry – but she would make it up to him. It sounded pitiful, even in her mind. These were things men did not forgive.

She dined alone on some cheese and bread and a small glass of juice. Olives gave her indigestion this week. Her pregnancy had her appetite rotating in some obscure cycle, so she was never sure what she would be able to eat without having to stagger to the privy. It was the first week of Junesse and the courtyard, a roasting dish during the middle of the day, became bearable only at night. The curfews imposed in the city outside were poorly policed, so the city was noisy after dark, even in their quiet neighbourhood.

Her heart fluttered as a dry voice asked from her doorway, ‘My dear, you are still awake?’ Antonin Meiros grinned boyishly as he hobbled into the room.

She looked up, feeling a smile return to her face for the first time in several days. ‘Husband—’ She went to get up, but he kissed her forehead and settled opposite her.

‘How are you, Ramita?’

‘Well enough. I have some discomfort here,’ she said, lightly touching her belly, ‘but otherwise I am well. Although I miss my husband,’ she scolded lightly.

‘I am sorry, my dear. We are trying to get Salim to meet with us, but Rashid cannot get him to agree.’

She remembered the darkly handsome emir with a shudder. ‘I don’t trust him.’

‘Rashid has his uses.’ Meiros poured himself some fruit juice. ‘His family have been part of the Ordo Costruo from early on; they have much to be grateful to us for. They have remained loyal to the Order through two Crusades. He will be steadfast.’ He looked across the table at her. ‘I did not come to see you about the woes of the world. I came to see your lovely face and to hear your voice. Tell me, is Justina paying you more attention these days?’

‘No – well, a little. She sees me daily, but only to see if I have started to, um, manifest.’ She steeled herself. ‘Husband, is there anything that might prevent this thing happening to me?’

‘No. According to the texts, it has always happened,.’ He smiled kindly. ‘Don’t be afraid, my dear. I know you were raised to think of the gnosis as evil, but it isn’t; it is just a tool, no more good nor evil than the person wielding it. Your soul is in no danger.’

It was easier to let him think that was what troubled her. She didn’t yet have the courage for the real conversation.

‘So, may I help you to bed?’ he asked, a hint of the lascivious in his words.

She was about to agree when her belly and bowels chose to rebel and she clutched her stomach. ‘The only place I need help to go to is the privy! I am sorry, Antonin.’

He looked up at her, startled. ‘You used my name?’

She realised it herself only then and she put a hand to her mouth, struck mute. She wasn’t precisely sure what this meant, but it felt powerfully significant somehow; he evidently thought so. He tilted her head and kissed her.

‘My Ramita,’ he breathed.

It felt like some part of her had changed: she had accepted her new life and farewelled the old. I am sorry, Kazim, wherever you are. She went to kiss him in return, a kiss of genuine affection, but her body betrayed her. A stomach cramp struck her, making her gasp. ‘Please, I must use the privy,’ she gasped.

Meiros let her go, an almost foolish look on his face. ‘Please, my dear, come to my chambers when you are done, if you feel able. Even if it is just to hold you.’

She nodded, feeling dazed, and staggered into the privy, where she sagged to the ground. Eventually she found the strength to purge herself and crawled out of the foetid little chamber, desiring nothing more than to be clean. There was a small bucket of water left over from the morning.

Huriya should be helping me, she thought irritably. As she washed herself, the cool water began to make her feel better. She found a clean nightdress, then sat in her tiny courtyard for a while, trying to find herself again. Am I falling for my ancient jadugara? she asked herself. Have I forgotten Kazim? Antonin is good to me – better than I deserve.

Who am I to yearn for love anyway? I am a market-girl – we are coins for our parents to exchange; love does not enter the transaction. It is just a lie we tell ourselves to make it bearable.

Love is simple, the songs said; love is certain. It sings inside you. So why was this so complicated? Why all these doubts – why was everything so confusing? Her love for Kazim was simple, but her feelings for Meiros were not. His power and age frightened and repelled, but his gentleness and strength brought comfort. And he needed her, it seemed, not just as a mother for children, but as a companion – as a wife. And in this frightening new world, she realised she needed him too.

She had tried to do the right thing. She had not eloped with Kazim – how could she? Who on Urte could hide from Antonin Meiros? To flee would have been a death sentence for them both. But why had she let Kazim fill her womb? How could she have been so insane? A few moments of bliss, selfishly offered and selfishly taken, had condemned her. There would be a price to pay.

Then I must pay it alone, she decided. If the children are Meiros’, he and I will raise them. If they are Kazim’s, I will plead to be allowed to raise them, in captivity if need be. I will beg to be allowed a second chance, and if my husband denies me that, it will be no one’s fault but mine.

There was a movement at the door, a serving boy who ran messages, one of the children of the kitchen staff. ‘Madam, there is a man at the gate, asking for you. I cannot find Captain Klein, madam.’ He glanced meaningfully at the door to Huriya’s rooms.

It would serve them right if I interrupted them … She sighed and said, ‘I will come,’ rising awkwardly. ‘My husband is abed and the captain is indisposed.’ She clutched her belly, straightened painfully and followed the boy down the stairs.

The courtyard below was silent, and lit by lanterns, little pools of light in the blackness of the darkmoon. The boy with her danced ahead, full of sprightly life. It made her smile to see him and she patted her belly fondly. I would like a boy-child. The lanky young guard Morden was on duty with another man, Franck; both waited before the inner gate, the one protected by Meiros’ wards. Only a family member or Klein could use the carved handles to admit guests after dark. Ramita glanced down at her acid-etched hand and flexed it slightly. Who could it be?

‘The Omali priest is here to see you, madam,’ Morden said, jerking a thumb at the viewing slit. ‘Something about prayers and candles.’ He looked contemptuously amused by it all.

Ramita put her head to the slit and opened it. In the well-lit chamber was a lone man, wrapped in dirty orange robes, his face coated in ash, hunched over a walking stick. But she wasn’t fooled for an instant; it was Kazim. She felt her heart slam into her ribs and she clutched her breast.

This is the moment.

She could almost hear Kazim’s thoughts: the hope, the determination, the purpose. The boy who loved her had come to take her away. But now I do not want to go …

She could almost touch his flinty purpose, his determination was as sharp as an arrowhead. It frightened her. Her legs trembled and she almost swooned.

‘Madam, are you all right?’ Morden gripped her forearm. ‘If you are unwell, I can send him away.’

It would be that easy, to make herself non-complicit, to remove herself from the decision. But she owed Kazim more than that. She’d loved him all of her young life. He did not deserve such cowardice.

I must make him go away – he must go – for his own sake he must go!

‘It’s all right,’ she heard herself say, ‘I just had a small turn. I will have a few words with him.’

‘Is it wise, madam?’ Morden wrinkled his nose. ‘There is a curfew.’

‘He’s Omali, Morden,’ she heard herself say. ‘What does he care for shihads? He’s a man of God. See, it is the young chela who has come here before.’ She could hear the shakiness in her voice, and marvelled that he could not. She reached out and twisted the handle that enabled the gate to be opened. The familiar tingle of the wards identifying her made her quiver, then the inner gates creaked and sagged slightly as the powers binding the door loosened, allowing the guards to unbar and open them.

‘Step through,’ Franck told Kazim. ‘Put your staff down and raise your hands.’

‘It will be only a short conversation, then he will go,’ she said firmly, the words meant for Kazim as he stepped through the opened door and put down his staff. He raised his hands.

He’s unarmed. What harm can he do? Why is he here?

Morden stepped closer to search him. Unexpectedly, his eyes flashed with gnosis-light as he passed an open hand in Kazim’s direction. She had vaguely known Morden had mage-blood, but he’d never used his skills in front of her as he did now, examining Kazim carefully.

‘He’s unarmed and his intentions are as stated,’ he told Franck.

The two guards stepped away and she met Kazim’s gaze. Emotion crackled between them. Please, tell me you are here to say goodbye. Please, let it just be that—

Franck patted Kazim for weapons himself and then stepped back. ‘He’s a well-made bastard for a holy man,’ the guard observed grudgingly. ‘Look at the muscle on him.’ He stepped away and glanced at her. ‘We cannot admit him further than this without Captain Klein’s permission,’ he told her.

She shook her head. ‘I do not wish him to be allowed further in any case,’ she said, her eyes not leaving Kazim’s face. See, I reject you – please go!

Kazim stared back at her mutely.

‘Well, chela?’ she asked. Then in Omali she let a little emotion show. ‘Kazim, why are you still here?’

‘I came for you,’ he replied woodenly.

‘My place is here,’ she told him.

No reaction. Nothing.

Something died inside her – and inside him. A light in his eyes flickered out.

He did not reply but instead bent to his feathered staff as if about to take his leave again. She almost collapsed in relief, but as he straightened, she glimpsed steel among the feathers decorating the top of the staff. He whirled with blinding speed, driving it through Morden’s right eye. The young man sagged on the bending shaft of the staff, already dead, but Kazim was still moving; his legs scissored, a kick that broke Franck’s jaw before he could cry out. Franck tried to lift his spear, but Kazim blurred inside his guard, plucked the man’s dagger from his scabbard and slashed it across his throat. He pinned him against the wall and let him slide down it, almost silent. Beside them, Morden had rolled onto his side, his eye-socket still impaled on the spear-staff.

Ramita fell to her knees in shock at the sudden violence. Kazim turned back to her, a splash of blood across his chest from Morden’s death-wound. The child servant beside her backed away, his mouth working towards a scream, but Kazim lunged past her and drove a fist into the boy’s face, snapping his head back. The boy bounced and slid across the stone, his head twisted at an unnatural angle. He didn’t move.

She opened her own mouth to scream, but Kazim’s hand stifled her. ‘You will not make a noise,’ he said coldly, as if he were made of stone. He kissed her pitilessly, swallowing her whimpering cries. ‘Open the gates, Ramita.’

No – no! she screamed inside, but Kazim had grabbed her and was leading her firmly to the gates, his left hand clamped over her mouth. He forced her right hand to the handles and as he worked the gates open dark shapes filed through the security pen and joined them: hard-eyed men, hooded in black. There were six of them, counting Kazim: assassins, come to kill her husband.

Please let this be a nightmare, she prayed hopelessly. Please, let me wake—

They moved like shadows, these hollow-eyed killers. One of them turned and looked at her curiously. His face was scarred, she noticed – and then he was bending over the child and straightening the boy’s limbs, no emotion showing.

Gesturing silently to each other, the assassins flowed up the stairs. Kazim’s arms locked tight about her, holding her up, whispering little endearments in praise of her courage and loyalty as if she were a pet animal that must be calmed. ‘Just one more task, my darling, and then we are free of this, free to live and love for ever,’ he told her, his arms like shackles about her. He was more muscular than he had ever been, his voice deeper, and terrifying in its implacable purpose.

They swarmed up to the upper terrace where a single lantern lit Huriya, wrapped only in a bloody sheet. She had a satisfied air about her: the afterglow of sex and death. There was a bloody dagger in her hands. She swayed languidly to Kazim and kissed him, the metallic stink of blood all about her. ‘The big ape is dead,’ she purred. ‘He never saw it coming.’ She giggled. ‘It was better than fucking.’

Ramita felt a great surge of revulsion and the Keshi girl noticed and reached out, stroking Ramita’s cheek with a bloody hand. ‘Oh, Mita, don’t be like that. We’re doing this for you.’

Make this stop, she pleaded silently again, wide-eyed with horror.

‘Have her open the door,’ hissed the scar-faced assassin.

Kazim pulled her against his chest. ‘Ramita darling,’ he whispered, ‘you have to do this one thing: you have to open the inner door. We will do the rest. We can’t get to him without you.’ She could feel his rising excitement, his tension building towards a climax; the impending death of her husband was pounding through his head. His thoughts were so palpable they made her want to scream. Her very soul revolted at the bloody desires she sensed, and her mind began to rebel.

Parvasi, be with me: they make me their tool. Please, great Goddess, give me strength. Darikha, Mother of Passion, lend me your fire! She walled herself off from Kazim’s thoughts, drawing on all that Meiros had shown her of mind-shielding, and drew strength from the silence. Though it might kill her, there was something she could do. A simple plan she could cling to: I will bite his hand, and then I will scream, and my husband will do the rest. She steadied herself and Kazim pushed her towards the security wards while behind her the dark shapes closed in, their weapons poised. Kazim’s hand gripped her shoulders. Scarface laid a blade across her path, mutely warning her that there could be no attempt to step inside the door and shut it. She felt all of their thoughts except for Scarface; he was closed and dark, hard like coal. Their murderous auras made her nauseous, but she could also sense their tension and fear – and now she could even see the glittering walls of pale light that protected the Casa, like webs of light patterning the doors before her.

The realisation hit her like a blow: I am feeling the gnosis – this is the manifestation! And then: These children belong to Antonin! Oh Gods, what can I do—?

She could feel the waiting, dormant power around her; in the water, in the stone of the building, in the burning lamps. She could feel it in the people about her, overwhelming her with sensation. But she had no idea how to reach it.

‘Just open the door and all will be well,’ Kazim whispered.

Scarface gripped her wrist and a dark gritty presence filled her head, as Alyssa’s had. She stared into his eyes. He is one of the magi!

<Yes I am, little Lakh.> His mental touch was hard and invasive and his strange yellow eyes seared into hers. She forced herself to go blank, desperate that her secret not be discovered. He grunted. <Hmm. I thought for a moment— > His eyes looked puzzled, then the immediacy of his task distracted him. He reached out, seized her wrist and placed her hand upon the security wards and she felt the acid-burns on her hands work on the lock.

Kazim could barely sense the other Hadishah positioned about the courtyard, silent as shadows. Rashid and Jamil were among them. He didn’t know the other three; they were only cold eyes through slitted masks. They held crossbows at the ready. Rashid held a scimitar.

Huriya had sashayed to the side, licking her dagger and looking smugly satisfied. My sister has become something frightening, he thought, holding Ramita tight. He could feel her trembling body, sense her inner turmoil. She hadn’t wanted to admit him at the gates. That thought burned him, but he told himself, She’s frightened, that is all. She’ll get over this, once we’re free.

‘Just open the door and all will be well,’ he whispered to her, but Jamil didn’t wait; though he was looking at her curiously, as if she had just surprised him, he took Ramita’s wrist and placed her hand on the security ward.

Her teeth sank into his hand and he recoiled in shock and pain. She screamed something in Rondian and Kazim almost lost his grip. He seized her to him, hard, dragging her away as Jamil whirled and words began to crackle from his mouth.

‘Don’t hurt her!’ Kazim bellowed, shielding Ramita with his own body – then a huge cracking sound shredded the night and the door of Meiros’ quarters blasted open, splintering into a hundred shards of carved wood that flew outwards, impaling the crossbow-wielding assassin in front. The Hadishah was torn apart in a gory spray as he was thrown backwards.

A crossbow thwacked, launching a bolt into the black passageway, but it disintegrated as it flew. Another Hadishah sprang to the side of the door, raising a blade, and Kazim pulled Ramita away again as Meiros appeared. The assassin beside the door fell to his knees, reversed his dagger and buried it in his own heart, falling sideways like a sack of flour. A second crossbowman fired, but the bolt shattered in blue sparks above Meiros, and then that assassin too was howling, jerking spasmodically as his heart burst. Jamil bellowed a warcry and thrust his sword. The blade struck shields of force and Jamil flew backwards, hammering into the pillars on the far side of the courtyard.

Meiros turned on Kazim and something gripped the inside of his skull with a force like a vice. He cried for Ahm as he fell to his knees, losing his grip on Ramita. Darkness drilled into his mind, tearing his vision apart as he collapsed, screaming.

Then Rashid gestured and Ramita was ripped through the air into his arms. The attack on Kazim ceased instantly as Meiros spun to confront the man holding his wife. The emir pulled off his mask. ‘Stop or I’ll kill her!’ he shouted, and his dagger scored Ramita’s throat.

Kazim saw Meiros clearly now, not decrepit, but tall and formidable, clad only in bed-robes, and his face ablaze with fury. For a dreadful second he thought the old man didn’t care, that in his rage he would condemn Ramita. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Jamil trying to stand, but his left leg was buckling. The blade in his own hand spun, aligning with his left breast, and he fought it silently, without hope, knowing only the training he’d absorbed from Rashid was keeping the steel from plunging into his heart.

‘No! Husband, no,’ Ramita called imploringly, her eyes on the dagger at Kazim’s chest. She was on her knees now, Rashid crouched above her, his dagger at the back of her head.

‘I will plunge this straight into her brain, Meiros,’ Rashid snarled. ‘You can’t get to me the way you can these others. I can kill her before you get to me, and she and your children will die—’

Kazim’s mind was abruptly free and he sobbed in relief as his dagger fell to the marble floor. All about them, the servants were gathering, watching helplessly as this drama played out in front of them. He saw Huriya in the shadows, frozen with terror. Sister, run, he thought with all his might.

‘Rashid Mubarak,’ the old man rasped, ‘unhand my wife and I will let you live to stand trial.’

Rashid lifted his head proudly. ‘No, Meiros: tonight, you die, or she does.’ Rashid poised the tip of the blade at her neck and twisted it, ready to thrust. Kazim almost screamed as her eyes popped and her body went rigid. She clasped her belly, tears streaming silently down her face. ‘Choose, Meiros: a few more miserable years before one of us gets to you, or children to bear your name and blood.’

Kazim’s eyes flew between these two terrible men, his heart in his mouth.

*

Ramita’s knees were grazed, her blood smearing the marble as she knelt at the feet of Rashid Mubarak. She was pinned and helpless, his dagger a promise of death, but somehow she could sense the glacial steel of the two magi’s minds: it was like being caught between two great boulders. But the concealed might of her husband dwarfed the emir, and they both knew it. Meiros could break him in a few moments – but in those moments, Ramita and her unborn children would perish.

<Ramita,> Meiros’ dry, gentle voice whispered in her mind.

She quivered in shock to hear him. Intuitively she shaped a return thought: <Husband, what am I to do?> He heard her, she could sense the contact. Hope flared unbidden.

<You have found your gnosis, my magnificent wife. I am so proud – but my dear, you must hide it for now. Bury it deep.> Aloud, he said, ‘What surety will you give me, Rashid, that you will not kill her and the unborn the moment I am dead?’

<I don’t know how to use it,> she wailed inside. <If only it had come sooner—>

‘Why would we do that?’ Rashid replied levelly, then suddenly his voice cracked like a bullwhip, ‘Stop that, old man – don’t you touch my mind!’ His blade gouged Ramita’s skin and blood sprang from the shallow cut and burned down her neck.

She heard Kazim gasp, and Meiros raised a placating hand. ‘I’ve stopped – don’t harm her.’ <I am sorry, my dear girl. I had to try.>

Rashid’s face was carved from flint. His next words sounded rehearsed, his victory speech: ‘There is no reason for us to harm either mother or children. She is an innocent, dragged here against her will by your misbegotten scheming and perverted lusts. I will take her under my protection. The children will know their heritage, and why you had to die. They will bear your name, even as they grow to hate you and all you did. They will serve Ahm as their talents and desires dictate. This I also swear.’

Meiros looked down at Ramita, his expression unreadable, but she could feel his pain. <I am sorry, my child. I see no way out of this.>

<No – please, let them kill me. You can go on and—>

<No, child, what I sought has come about: I have fathered the children I foresaw. The rest is up to you.>

<But—>

<Child, I ruined your life when I married you. I did it to save my creation – perhaps I love it too much, but I saw the great good it did before the Crusades and I did what I did to bring those times again. Please, forgive me.>

<Please, do something – kill him—>

<I can’t risk it. Rashid is too quick, too strong – you would be dead before I could intervene. It must be as he says: you or me.> His mental voice was resigned, like a funerary oration. <My divinations led me to you and to a world made safe. They did not promise that I would live to see it.>

She felt fresh tears spring to her eyes. <Please forgive me, for being such a poor wife.>

<You have been magnificent, my dear: the greatest gift of my elder years. You found it within you to care for an old man, when most would have been revolted and horrified. I love you more dearly than I love anything else, even the Leviathan Bridge. And maybe this way, I can save you both.>

He looked at Rashid calmly and lowered his hands. ‘Very well, I accept. You will protect Ramita and our children as if she were your own wife and they your children. Do you accept?’

Rashid smiled triumphantly. ‘I accept, old man.’ His eyes never left Meiros. ‘Kazim, kill him.’

Kazim climbed to his feet and retrieved his dagger. There can be no pity for the infidel. And he felt no pity, not for this perverted old goat. It was fitting that he should die in his bed-robes, pathetic, dishonoured. He felt his strength return in body and will.

I have crossed the deserts, survived the raiders. I have trained, I have purified myself. I have deceived him and lain with his wife. I will go down in history as the slayer of Antonin Meiros.

The old man’s pale, rheumy eyes turned to him, and focused on him with burning intensity. ‘So, you are the Kazim she spoke of. You have come a long way, boy.’

‘Shut up, jadugara,’ he snarled. He heard Ramita whimper, saw Rashid stiffen. He felt an urge to rail at Meiros, to berate him for all the ruin his kidnapping of Ramita had wrought – but their lives hung by too thin a thread. There was time for only one taunt, one extra blade to twist. ‘The babies in her belly are mine,’ he whispered and rammed the dagger up under his chin into his brain. ‘She always belonged to me.’

The ancient mage slid to the ground like a pole-axed bull.

He bent over the body. A puff of smoke, bluish-grey, barely visible, formed at the man’s open lips and Kazim inhaled. Something entered him, something strong, and he felt his body begin to react. His skin flushed, his muscles quivered and the fires in his heart flared up inside him.

We are not like the magi, Sabele had told him. The first soul we drink defines our capacity to absorb energy, and therefore our gnostic power. And your first kill will be the greatest mage in history.

You will be as a god to us.

Someone screamed, a howl of desolate grief that tore at his soul, and he turned and saw it was Ramita, kneeling at Rashid’s feet, her face a study in agony. He stared in puzzlement, then went to her – but she looked up at him, and her hatred and despair drove him backwards like a force of nature.

Then something else hit him like a flying wall: the life and memories and powers of an Ascendant mage. They smashed his awareness apart like broken glass.

Antonin Meiros fell, and Ramita’s world fell apart. Her grief burst from her like the roar of a tiger. When Kazim looked up, she saw him as a vile rakas-demon, a prince of Shaitan, hideous triumph written across his face, and in that moment all of her love of him turned to hate. She wanted them all dead, for their cold manipulations and stage-managed seductions; for their delight in murder. She hated Huriya for coldly playing with Jos Stein, then slaying him. She hated Kazim, for using her naïveté to destroy all she loved. And above all she hated Rashid, the puppet-master of this bloody shadowplay.

She tried to stand and reach for a fallen weapon, anything to lash out with, even as Kazim stiffened, then collapsed, clutching his skull. But Rashid turned on her and seized her forehead in his hand. ‘No you don’t, you base-born bitch,’ he snarled, and darkness crackled from his palm, searing her forehead with agony, and oblivion blossomed. The world fell away.