Mage's Blood

1

The Vexations of Emperor Constant (Part 1)

The World of Urte

Urte is named for Urtih, an earth god of the ancient Yothic people. There are two known continents, Yuros and Antiopia (or Ahmedhassa). Some scholars have speculated that, due to certain similarities in primitive artefacts and some commonality of creatures, they were once joined through the Pontic Peninsula. This is still unproven, but what is certain is that without the power of the magi, there would be no intercourse between the continents now, as they are divided by more than three hundred miles of impassable sea. We surmise a prehistoric cosmic incident which caused Lune, the Moon, to move into a closer orbit, rendering the seas more turbulent, preventing sea-travel and destroying significant landmass.

ORDO COSTRUO COLLEGIATE, PONTUS

Pallas, North Rondelmar, on the continent of Yuros

2 Julsept 927

1 Year until the Moontide

Gurvon Gyle pulled up the hood of his robe like a penitent monk: just another anonymous initiate of the Kore. He turned to his companion, an elegant silver-maned man who was stroking his beard thoughtfully, staring out the grilled window. Shifting light caught on his face, making him look ageless. ‘You’ve still got the governor’s ring on, Bel,’ Gyle remarked.

The man started out of his reverie and pocketed the easily identifiable ring. ‘Listen to the crowds, Gurvon.’ His voice wasn’t exactly awed, but certainly impressed, which seldom happened. ‘There must be more than a hundred thousand citizens in the square alone.’

‘I’m told more than three hundred thousand will witness the ceremony,’ Gyle said, ‘but not all of them will be watching the parade. Pull up your hood.’

Belonius Vult, Governor of Noros, smiled wryly and cowled himself with a soft sigh. Gurvon Gyle had built a career on anonymity, but Vult hated it. Today was not an occasion for display, though.

Heralded by a soft knock at the door, another man slid into the tiny room. He was slender, with the olive skin and curling black hair of a Lantrian, clad in sumptuous red velvets and bearing an ornate crozier. His soft, oval face had full, womanish lips and narrow eyes. Being near him made Gyle’s skin crawl at the tingling sensation of gnosis-wardings. Paranoia ruled the Church magi more than most. The bishop flicked back his tangle of black curls and proffered a ring-encrusted hand. ‘My lords of Noros, are you ready to witness the Blessed Event?’

Vult kissed the bishop’s hand. ‘Eagerly ready, my Lord Crozier.’ All bishops of the Kore forsook their family and took the surname Crozier, but this man was kin to the Earl of Beaulieu and was accounted one of the rising stars of the Church.

‘Call me Adamus, gentlemen.’ The bishop leant his crozier against the wall and smiled like a child playing dress-up as he pulled up the hood of his identical grey cloak. ‘Shall we go?’

The bishop led them into a darkened passage and up a crumbling stair. With every step the noise grew: the hum and buzz of the people, the blare of trumpets, the rumble of drums, the chanting of the priests and shouting of the soldiers, the tramp of the thousands of boots. They could feel it through the stonework; the air itself seemed to vibrate against their skin. Then they topped the stairs and found themselves on a tiny recessed balcony overlooking the Place d’Accord. The roar became a wall of sound that buffeted their senses.

‘Great Kore!’ Gyle shouted at Vult, who was smiling in wonder. Neither man was unworldly, but this was something more than either had seen. This was the Place d’Accord, the heart of the city of Pallas, as Pallas was the heart of Rondelmar, which was the heart of Yuros: the Heart of the Empire. This mighty square was the theatre upon which the endless play of politics and power was staged, before a mob whose size was frightening. Giant marble and gold statuary dwarfed the people clustered beneath and on them, like giants come to witness the pageant. Column after column of soldiers marched past, the tramp of the legionaries a drumbeat, a pulse of power. Windships circled above, giant warbirds floating in defiance of gravity, casting massive shadows beneath the noonday sun. Scarlet flags billowed in the soft northerly winds, bearing the Lion of Pallas and the sceptre and star of the Royal House of Sacrecour.

Gyle let his eyes drift to the royal box, some two hundred yards to his left, to where the legionaries directed their straight-armed salutes as they passed. Tiny figures in scarlet and glittering gold presided from above: His Royal Majesty the Emperor Constant Sacrecour and his sickly children. Assorted Dukes and Lords of this and that, Prelates and magi too, all come to witness this never-before-seen event.

Today, a living saint would be inaugurated. Gyle whistled softly, still amazed that someone had the nerve for such blasphemy, but to most here, judging by the joyous and triumphal mood of the crowd, it was deemed right and good.

A cavalry detachment high-stepped past, followed by a dozen elephants, captured on the last Crusade. Then came the Carnian riders, guiding their huge fighting-lizards between the walls of onlookers, ignoring the collective gasps of the crowds. The gaudy reptiles snapped and hissed whilst their riders maintained iron discipline, staring straight ahead except when they too swivelled to salute the emperor.

Gyle remembered what it was like to face such a force in battle and shuddered slightly. The Noros Revolt: a débâcle, a very personal nightmare. It had been the making of him, even as it stripped away both innocence and morality, and for what? Noros was once more part of the Imperial Family of Nations, for all the good it did them. For the empire it had been a blip, a momentary stalling of their conquests, but for Noros, the wounds still festered.

Gyle banished these thoughts. No one outside of Noros cared any more, and certainly no one here. He followed the bishop’s pointing finger and dutifully marvelled as the Winged Corps swooped over the Place d’Accord, dozens of flying reptiles in serried ranks coming over the roof of the Sacred Heart Cathedral, battle-magi saddled behind the riders, and dipping before the royal box while the crowds screamed in awe and no little fear. Jaws longer than a man snapped, foot-long teeth gnashed and many of the winged constructs belched fire as they roared: impossible creatures made real by the magi.

How did we ever think we could defeat them?

After that came trumpets and a sudden silence as white flags rose about the royal box – the cue for the populace to still their tongues, for the emperor was to speak. Obedient to a man, the people fell silent as the small, slender shape on the throne rose to his feet and stepped to the front of the royal podium.

‘My People,’ Emperor Constant began, his high-pitched voice gnostically amplified throughout the square, ‘my People, today I am filled with pride and awe. Pride, at the assembled grandeur of we, the Rondian people! Rightly are we acclaimed the greatest nation upon this Urte! Rightly are we known as Kore’s Children! Rightly do we sit in judgement on the rest of mankind! Rightly are you, the least of my children, of greater worth to God than all other peoples! And awe, that we have achieved so much in the face of all adversity. Awe, that we have been chosen by Kore himself for his mission!’

Constant went on exalting his people – and by implication himself – cataloguing their glories from the overthrow of the Rimoni Empire and the conquest of Yuros to the Crusades across the Moontide Bridge and the crushing of the infidels of Antiopia.

Gyle felt his attention drift away from the emperor’s slant on history. He counted himself fortunate, one of the few who had been educated in something closer to the truth. The Arcanum he’d attended had been more secular and less partisan. The tale he knew was that as recently as five hundred years ago Yuros had been fragmented, its greatest power, the Rimoni Empire, controlling barely a quarter of the landmass, though that encompassed Rimoni, Silacia, Verelon and all of Noros, Argundy and Rondelmar. Wars were constant; dynasties plotted and warred in Rym, the capital. Various faiths, now labelled pagan, struggled for supremacy. Plagues came, famines went. The seas roared, impassable. No one even dreamed that there was another continent beyond the eastern seas.

Then five hundred years ago, everything changed: Corineus came like a blazing comet and set the world alight. Corineus the Saviour, though he was born Johan Corin, son of a noble family of the border province of Rondelmar. He abandoned the savage gentility of the courts for a simpler, rustic life on the road. Johan Corin travelled, preaching of free love and other such idyllic notions, attracting a band of followers that over time burgeoned into nearly a thousand young people. The lost and impressionable swarmed to him and his promises of salvation in the next life and endless debauchery in this one. His people swarmed over the countryside, marked out as troublemakers, until the day when they descended upon one particular township, who panicked and called upon a nearby legion camp for help. The army agreed that the time had come to end the blasphemies of Johan Corin and his followers. That night Corin’s camp was surrounded by a full legion, and at midnight, the soldiers closed in to make the arrests.

What happened next passed into legend and became scripture: there were lights and voices, and the legion died, to a man, in a thousand different ways. So did many of Corin’s followers, including Corin himself, murdered by his sister-lover Selene. But there were survivors, and they were transfigured: each one had the power of a demi-god, wielding fire and storm, throwing boulders and channelling lightning. They became the Blessed Three Hundred, the first magi.

Abandoning Corin’s principles of love and peace to take revenge on the town (now conveniently remembered as a ‘wicked place’) in an orgy of destruction. Then, realising what they now were, they allied themselves with a Rimoni Senator and formed a new movement that became an army capable of annihilating whole legions without losing a man. They destroyed the Rimoni, razed Rym and made the world anew. They created the Rondian Empire.

The Three Hundred attributed their powers to Johan Corin, claiming he was an Intercessor with God, who had bargained away his own life to gain magical powers for his disciples. They set about claiming the mortal world as their own. Being young and almighty, they slept with whomever they desired, in any land they came to. At first they did not care that the powers diminished in their children the less they bred true, but as their offspring spread throughout Yuros, claiming fiefdoms, and their understanding of their powers grew, they started colleges to teach each other, and they founded a church, and preached of their own divinity to the population.

Now, five centuries later, thousands bore the sacred blood of the Blessed Three Hundred: the magi. Their rule was embodied in the Imperial Dynasty, all descendants of Sertain, who took Corin’s place as leader after the transfiguration, and currently vested in Emperor Constant Sacrecour. Gyle himself could trace his ancestry directly to one of those Three Hundred. I am of this, he thought. I am magi, though I am also of Noros. He glanced at Belonius Vult and then at Adamus Crozier, magi also: rulers of Urte.

Adamus gestured to the lower end of the Place d’Accord as if this were a show he was compering. A massive statue of Corineus stood there, his arms flung wide, just as they had found him the morning after the Transfiguration: dead, with his sister’s dagger in his heart. Every one of the Three Hundred claimed to have spoken to and received instruction from Corin after his death. Some said they had seen his sister Selene in their visions, screaming foul words, though she had been nowhere to be found when they came to themselves at dawn with the legion lying dead about them. Their accounts became Scripture: Johan had guided them through the transfiguration, then been murdered by his corrupt sister Selene. He was the son of God and she was the whore-witch of Perdition. He become Corineus, the Saviour, revered everywhere; she became Corinea, the Accursed.

From the breast of the massive statue of Corineus a rose-gold light began to form, shimmering as it grew. The crowd gasped in anticipation and awe as the light became brighter and brighter, casting its brilliance over the square. Gyle could see tears on the faces of many.

Within the rosy light a shape formed, a woman clad in a white gown that looked deceptively simple, until Adamus whispered that it was made entirely of diamonds and pearls. She walked slowly out onto the platform formed by the giant golden dagger piercing the statue’s heart: a woman about to be proclaimed a living saint. The entire crowd emitted an awestruck sob, as if all their hopes and dreams rested in her alone. They gasped as she stepped from the golden dagger into the air and floated down the square, some sixty feet above the crowd, towards the royal box. The people cried and cheered at this simple feat that any half-trained mage could accomplish.

Adamus Crozier winked, as if to say ‘behold the theatre’. Gyle kept his face guarded.

The woman drifted past them, her palms pressed together in supplication, a sea of faces following her progress as she floated above them. I hope she’s wearing her best underwear, Gyle found himself thinking, then stilled his mind. Mocking these people, even in the privacy of your mind, was a dangerous habit to fall into. Minds were not inviolate.

The woman floated toward the imperial throne, where Grand Prelate Wurther, Father of the Church, rose stiffly to receive her, his attendants about him. She bent her knees as she landed, hands clasped in humble prayer. The crowd cheered, then fell silent again as the Grand Prelate raised his hand.

Adamus Crozier tugged at Gyle’s sleeve. ‘Do you need to see more?’ he whispered.

Gyle looked at Vult, then shook his head faintly.

‘Good,’ said Adamus. ‘I have a fine scarlo awaiting us below, and we have much to discuss.’

Before they left, Gyle allowed himself to gaze long and hard at the face of the emperor, the young man they would meet in person tomorrow. Using his mage-trained sight he pulled his gaze in closer, carefully studying the man who ruled millions. Constant’s face was a study in pride, envy and fear, ill-hidden behind a mask of piety. Gyle almost felt pity for him.

After all, how was one supposed to react when one’s living mother had just become a saint?

The following day Gyle found himself whiling away the last few minutes before his audience in the lush palace gardens. As ever, he was the outsider, the interloper in paradise. He turned his collar against the light drizzle and paced a secluded path, his mind elsewhere. He stood out here because he wasn’t dressed in vivid finery. This season the fashions were bright, Eastern-inspired, and throughout the gardens were noblemen affecting martial attire. The Third Crusade was approaching, so it was fashionable once more to look like a man of war, but Gyle’s weathered leathers made him look like a thrush in a parrot’s cage. He wore a sword himself, but his had a razor-sharp blade and a well-worn grip. His lined features, tanned to a deep brown by the desert sun gave him a sinister air amidst these pallid northerners. But still he was careful not to cross the path of any of the young men or women, despite their polished effeminacy and mincing manners: every person in this garden was mage-born, with the power to destroy a squad of soldiers with a thought. He could too, if he needed to, but there was no gain to be had in brawling with a young mage-noble in the emperor’s gardens.

Belonius Vult appeared at the entrance to the gardens and gave an impatient wave.

Well then. With small steps, big things begin.

The governor’s smooth features crinkled in mild annoyance as he took in Gyle’s rough-clad appearance. Vult himself was clad in a silver-blue silken robe, the epitome of the well-dressed magus. Gyle had known him for decades, and had never seen him look less than sumptuously immaculate. Belonius Vult, the Governor of Noros in the name of his Imperial Majesty. Others knew him as the traitor of Lukhazan, the one general of the Noros Revolt who now served the empire in a high post.

‘Could you not have at least thrown on a clean tunic, Gurvon?’ Belonius remarked. ‘We are appearing before the emperor – and more importantly, his newly sainted mother.’

‘It’s clean,’ Gyle said. ‘Well, washed anyway. The dirt is ingrained. It’s what they expect of me: an uncouth southerner, fresh from the wilds.’

‘Then you look the part. Come, we are expected.’ If Vult had any nerves, they were well hidden. Gyle could not remember Magister Belonius Vult looking discomforted very often, not even during the surrender of Lukhazan.

They traversed a tangle of marble courtyards and rosewood-panelled arches, passing statues of emperors and saints, bowing to lords and ladies as they penetrated the Imperial Palace through doors that few were permitted to pass. Strange creatures walked the halls unattended: hybrid creatures, gnosis-constructs from the Imperial bestiary. Some were made to resemble creatures of legend, griffins and pegasi, but others were nameless figments of their makers’ imagination.

A final door led to a chamber where Imperial Guardsmen with winged helms stood like statues. A chamberlain bade them set aside their periapts, the channelling gems that enhanced the use of the gnosis. For Belonius, this was the crystal topping his beautiful blackwood and silver staff; for Gyle it was a plain onyx on a leather string tucked inside his shirt. He leant his sword against the wall and hung the gem from its hilt. He shared one final glance with Vult. Ready?

Vult nodded, and together, the two Noromen entered the inner sanctum of their conquerors.

Within was a large round chamber with walls of plain white marble, with scenes of the Blessed Three Hundred set in relief. A statue of Corineus ascending to Heaven hung above the table, slowly rotating with no visible support. The Saviour was gazing upward, his face rapt in the moment of death. Lanterns held in either hand illuminated the room. A round table made of heavy oak and polished to mirror-sheen had nine seats set about it, in a nod to the traditions of the north: the Schlessen legend of King Albrett and his Knights. However, Emperor Constant had made something of a mockery of this legendary symbol of equality by seating himself on a carved throne set on a dais above the table, dominating the room. It was decorated with Keshi gold and camel-bone, if Gyle wasn’t mistaken: plunder from the last Crusade.

The doorman announced, ‘Your Majesties, may I present Magister-General Belonius Vult, Governor of Noros; and Volsai-Magister Gurvon Gyle of Noros.’

His Imperial Majesty Constant Sacrecour looked up from beneath beetled brows and frowned. ‘They’re Noromen,’ he complained in a whining voice. ‘Mother, you never said they were Noromen.’ He shifted uncomfortably in his heavy ermine-lined crimson robes. He was a thin man in his late twenties, but he acted younger, and his face was permanently pursed into an expression of petulant distrust. His beard had been nervously twisted out of shape and his hair was lank. He gave the impression he would rather be elsewhere, or at least better-amused.

‘Of course I did,’ replied his mother brightly. The Sainted Mater-Imperia Lucia Fasterius remained seated, but she gave them both a welcoming smile, surprising Gyle, who’d expected a colder woman. She had lines about her eyes and mouth that most mage-women’s vanity would not tolerate, and she wore an unpretentious sky-blue dress, her only adornment a golden halo-circlet pushing back her blonde hair. She looked like a favourite aunt.

‘You look as radiant today as yesterday, your Holiness,’ Belonius Vult said with a deep bow.

It was so obviously untrue that the Empress-Mother cocked an eyebrow. ‘I spent enough on that gown yesterday to raise a fresh Crusade,’ she remarked drily. ‘I hope you aren’t going to tell me I should have just worn a peasant’s smock, Governor Vult?’

‘I meant only that no finery could improve the radiance of your visage, sainted lady,’ returned Belonius without missing a beat. Vult could smarm exceedingly well.

Lucia eyed him appraisingly and indicated two seats opposite her. Four men sat at the table, each staring at the newcomers with gazes ranging from neutral to hostile. ‘Allow me to offer my congratulations on your sainthood, your Holiness, Vult went on. Never has one so worthy been so justly acclaimed.’

Lucia smiled prettily, more like a girl accepting praise for her looks than a regal saint. But Gyle had heard whispers about what she did to those who displeased her that had chilled his battle-weary soul, so what would he know about saints and how they looked and behaved?

‘Welcome to the Inner Council of Rondelmar,’ Lucia waved an arm gracefully. ‘Do you know these other gentlemen? Allow me to make the introductions.’ She indicated a tall, balding man who looked about forty but was probably eighty. ‘This is Count Calan Dubrayle, the Imperial Treasurer.’ Dubrayle nodded tersely, his ancient eyes distant.

The man beside him had silver hair but youthful features and a heroic build. ‘I am Kaltus Korion,’ he said coldly. ‘I remember you, Vult.’ He looked like he wanted to spit. He turned to Lucia. ‘I don’t see why they need join us – this is the Inner Council, not some market café for travellers to peddle their ideas. I’ve read the plan. I don’t need them to sell it to me.’

‘The plan we are to implement was devised by these gentlemen, Kaltus, dear. Be nice.’

‘I’ve been as nice as I need to be to Noromen – during their Revolt.’ He smirked at Belonius. ‘I still have your sword in my trophy room, Vult.’

‘You’re welcome to it,’ replied Vult smoothly. ‘I have more potent weapons that are inalienable from my person.’

Careful, Belonius, for Kore’s sake, Gyle thought. That’s Kaltus rukking Korion!

Kaltus Korion sniffed, unimpressed, and looked at Gyle. ‘And so this is the notorious Gurvon Gyle? Is it too late to annul the Imperial Pardon and hang him?’

‘The Revolt was a long time ago,’ Gyle said mildly, meeting the Rondian general’s eyes. It was in fact seventeen years since the men of Noros had risen against their Imperial masters, and even appeared victorious, until Lukhazan had been surrendered without a fight by Belonius Vult, and the tide had turned. Gyle had been much younger then, careless of danger in his youth and idealism. Now what was he, a burned-out spymaster? A devious rogue with one last plan to earn a comfortable retirement? Something like that.

‘Well said. The Revolt was far too long ago to trouble us now,’ agreed a fat man in ornate priestly robes so heavy with gilt and gems it was a divine miracle he could move. Grand Prelate Dominius Wurther looked even more obese up close than he had yesterday when viewed across the Place d’Accord. ‘It was long ago, and we have welcomed our Noros-born brothers back into the Imperial bosom. I look forward to the discussion.’ He grinned greasily, his jowls wobbling. ‘I trust young Adamus entertained you well yesterday?’

The other men in the room glanced at each other. If the Noromen were guests of a bishop, then what did that say about the Church’s role in their proposal, or the nature of the hidden agendas?

Gyle had to strain to keep his face expressionless. Let them speculate.

The man to the emperor’s left half-turned. ‘I’m Betillon,’ he announced, as if that explained everything. It did, of course: Noromen still called Tomas Betillon ‘the Rabid Dog’ for what he’d done at Knebb during the Revolt. He had a grizzled, rough-hewn face, untamed whiskers and hooded eyes.

‘Do we really need this meeting?’ Korion repeated impatiently. ‘So Vult has given us a plan – pay him some gold and let him go on his way.’ He smirked. ‘That’s all it took at Lukhazan.’

Lucia tapped the table and everyone stopped and turned to her. ‘That’s enough introductions, gentlemen.’ She fixed Korion with a cold stare, no longer looking like a kindly aunt. ‘These gentlemen are crucial to our plans, and they are welcome here. They are attending at my – at our – invitation. They have come up with something that has pleased us, and they are vital for the execution.’ She waved a hand at the well-padded leather seats. ‘Now, please, be seated.’

The emperor looked like he wanted to say something in support of Korion, but he didn’t. He pouted a little instead.

Lucia tapped a stack of papers. ‘You have all seen the papers and each of you has participated in discrete discussions concerning Magister Vult’s plan for the Crusade, but this is the first time we have been able to gather together. Let me emphasise, gentlemen, that we here will decide the fate of millions of people – the fate of nations. The course of the Third Crusade will be determined by us, not on the battlefield but here, in this room, by those gathered here at my request.’ She looked at her son, the emperor, and added, ‘At our request.’

Gyle wondered if she outranked him now, being a living saint. I bet he’s wondering that too.

Lucia looked around the table. ‘I will clearly define the situation so that we are all of one understanding. Then we will agree the way ahead.’ She got to her feet and began to circle the table. Her voice became clear and emotionless: less saint and more angel of retribution.

‘It will not have escaped your notice, gentlemen, that the Golden Age of Rondelmar has begun to dim.’ The emperor looked displeased at her words, but didn’t interrupt. ‘Though outwardly it looks like we were never stronger, the purity at the heart of Rondelmar’s rightful dominance of the world has begun to tarnish. Impurity has been allowed to enter this realm, by men who care more for gold than for love of Kore. The merchant cabals prosper, whilst we who love Kore and the emperor must struggle for what was once ours by right. A great evil was done, and it must be undone. The evil I refer to is, of course, the “Leviathan Bridge” – that cursed creation of Antonin Meiros and his godless cronies.’ She slapped the table, suddenly angry. ‘When Kore made this land, he made two great continents, separated by vast oceans, and he commanded his sister Luna to make those waters impassable, so that East should never meet West. Learned, noble, enlightened West and base, depraved, idolatrous East should never meet, under Sun or Moon – so it was written.

‘But Meiros, an Ascendant too craven to join the liberation of Yuros from the Rimoni yoke, left the fellowship of the Three Hundred and built that cursed Bridge, and from that Bridge do all of our woes come! I wonder, does Antonin Meiros even know what he has done?’

He seemed perfectly aware of it last time I saw him, reflected Gyle. He wondered whether Lucia Fasterius truly believed the bigoted dogma she spoke. She seemed intelligent, learned – kindly, even. But in her eyes something fanatic lurked, like a venomous snake.

Lucia came to a halt behind her chair and gripped the wooden back tightly. ‘For a century we have seen the Bridge open every twelve years, when the tides drop to levels that permit traverse. We have seen the merchants pour across then return with all manner of addictive Eastern goods – opium and hashish, coffee and tea, even the silks and other luxuries that entrance our people. They can virtually name their prices on return. The bankers extend credit to merchants whilst squeezing the nobility, the magi-protectors who made Rondelmar what it is. Who are the richest men in Rondelmar? The merchants and bankers! Fat obsequious slime like Jean Benoit and his merchant cabal. And what have they bought with their ill-gotten gains? Our homes – our belongings – our art, and worse: they have purchased our sons and daughters, our Blood!’ Lucia was shouting now, spittle flecking her lips. ‘Those scum are buying our children and taking them to wife or husband, so that their misbegotten offspring will have everything, both gold and gnosis, and as a result, we are seeing a new breed, the mage-merchant, nasty, grasping half-breeds. Make no mistake, gentlemen, there is a war brewing between men of the Purse and men of the Blood. Think about that: lowborn pedlars buying our daughters to breed gnosis-wielding sons and daughters for themselves. And we, the Magi, what are we doing? We. Are. Whoring. Our. Children.’

Lucia’s eyes narrowed vengefully. ‘But the Throne has not been idle, my friends. Two Moontides ago we struck. My lamented husband, the Emperor Magnus Sacrecour, boldly confronted the heretic Meiros – and Meiros backed down. Knowing Meiros would not dare to destroy his own creation we marched our armies into Antiopia, and we punished the infidel. We conquered Dhassa and Javon and Kesh and set up new governments to rule in our name and convert the heathen to Kore. But more importantly, we broke the traders: We destroyed the trust between the Eastern merchants and Benoit’s cabal. Though our people suffered somewhat, we weakened the hold of merchants and bankers.’

‘Suffered somewhat’? Gyle thought indignantly. Poverty, destitution and rebellion might have resulted from your actions, but at least you knocked a few percentage points off the profits for the merchants, eh?

Lucia nodded at Betillon. ‘Tomas and his men defend Hebusalim and prepare for the next Crusade, but the Crusades have emptied our Treasury. The people have given, and given generously, yet we still owe millions to those damned merchant bankers – and still they prosper, still they gain in influence – and still they buy our children.’

If four-fifths of the wealth plundered in the Crusade had not gone into the private hoards of certain royal personages, perhaps the Imperial Treasury would be better off, Gyle reflected, glancing at Calan Dubrayle, who seemed to be stifling the same thought.

Mater-Imperia Lucia sat again, her face still flushed with passion but her voice colder now. ‘Let me be frank, gentlemen: the throne has never before been so weak – not through any weakness in the emperor,’ she added hastily, as Constant stirred, ‘for though only a child at the time, Constant was both wise and bold, ordering the Second Crusade and strengthening our hold on the Hebb Valley. But the merchants are buying our souls, turning Kore’s chosen people into a nation of shopkeepers.’

‘We have other enemies too: Duke Echor of Argundy, the former emperor’s brother, has made it clear he covets the throne, and all of Argundy marches to his tune. That my son’s only uncle plots treachery boils my blood. He too must be destroyed. And’ – she looked about to spit – ‘another contamination has crept into this realm: Antiopian slaves, brought here to do the work of honest men of Yuros. I have no quarrel with slavery – that, after all, is the only thing Sydians are good for – but to permit these mudskins into our midst goes too far – they must be exterminated!’

Gyle noted Dubrayle suppressing a groan. The Treasurer made a pretty mint from taxes on slave-trading, he recalled. I bet you won’t want that trade closed down …

Lucia looked nothing like a saint now. ‘These are our enemies, gentlemen: the merchants, Duke Echor, the mudskins and Meiros. Him above all.’ She took a deep breath. ‘They must all die.’

She stopped, grim-faced, and the room fell silent. The men at the table nodded agreement, and Gyle felt it prudent to do likewise. So that is how saints think.

Lucia gestured at Belonius. ‘Our good friend Magister Vult has come to us with a solution to all of these problems. I will now hand over to him, so that we may hear firsthand his plan to save our realm.’

Vult stood instantly and bowed. ‘Most Sainted Lady, no one could have summarised our position better. Let me start by properly introducing Gurvon Gyle, my friend and colleague, whose network of informers has enabled us to pull this plan together. Gurvon’s eyes and ears are everywhere – he is probably the best-informed man on Urte.’

Gyle resisted the urge to give them his best I know who you sleep with look.

Vult breezed on, ‘My plan deals with the three main issues Mater-Imperia Lucia has outlined for us: the Merchants, Duke Echor, and the heathens of Kesh. Put simply, we’re going to destroy them all, and it starts, as Mater-Imperia has told us, with the Bridge. The Leviathan Span begins at Pontus and runs more than three hundred miles to the Dhassa coast, never deviating an inch. It is a remarkable construction.’

‘A demon’s device,’ muttered Betillon.

Yes, but one you’ve prospered mightily from, thought Gyle.

Vult continued, unperturbed, ‘Twenty-three years ago, in 904, Emperor Magnus marched four legions across the Bridge. Antonin Meiros could have stopped us, and slain tens of thousands of Rondian soldiers and civilians – at the cost of destroying his own construction. Every man would have perished, and in all likelihood the emperor would have fallen in the turmoil that followed. But Meiros and his Ordo Costruo failed to act, allowing Emperor Magnus to seize the Bridge – and Hebusalim.

‘When the Bridge closed again we hoped we had done enough. The merchant guilds had lost vast amounts and many were ruined. But our air-fleet has limited resources and the garrison at Hebusalim was eventually massacred by vast hordes of the heathen – our greatest military disaster. In 916 your Majesty’ – he bowed to Constant – ‘exacted revenge for the massacre and strengthened our hold on Hebusalim, making milord Betillon his governor and bleeding the dark-skinned heathen white.’

Betillon and Korion chuckled at this, and Gyle admitted, You know how to play them, my friend.

‘Now the Third Crusade is upon us: in one year’s time the Leviathan Bridge will rise from the sea and we will march once more. All of Kesh awaits us. The Amteh Convocation in Gatioch has recently declared shihad, Holy War, which obliges every man of the Amteh Faith to take up arms against us. The Third Crusade will be nothing like what has gone before; this will be vast, epoch-shaping.

‘We must face the fact that we have had setbacks. In the key kingdom of Javon, the Dorobon dynasty we installed has fallen, supplanted by the Nesti, who are of old Rimoni senatorial stock. Javon, which is peopled by both Rimoni and a branch of the Keshi called the Jhafi, lies to the northeast of Hebusalim and commands the hills above the Zhassi Valley. Control Javon and you have the keys to Hebusalim and to Kesh. To secure our advance, we must secure Javon. It is a complex place, and my colleague knows it well. Gurvon will now reveal our plans for Javon.’

Gyle looked about him, licking his suddenly dry lips. Emperor Constant looked bored, but Lucia was leaning forward, her eyes fixed on him. Korion and Betillon were sullenly defensive and Dubrayle looked as if he’d sat on something spiky. Only Grand Prelate Wurther looked comfortable. Ah, religion: balm for the soul.

Gyle cleared his throat and began, ‘Your Majesties, when the Javonesi overthrew the Dorobon six years ago, Olfuss Nesti was elected king. You will notice I said “elected”: Javon continues the old Rimoni tradition of elected rulers, but there is an added twist. You may be shocked to learn that a man cannot assume the throne unless he has mixed blood – Rimoni and Jhafi. This was agreed to forestall civil war when the Rimoni first settled in Javon. Olfuss has mixed parentage, and he has a Jhafi wife, the mother of his two sons and two daughters. Last year I contrived an accident that killed his elder son and heir. His daughters are presently aged seventeen and sixteen and the younger son is seven. There will be no more children. Were Olfuss to die, his eldest daughter would assume the regency until his seven-year-old son comes of age.’

‘Son and heir?’ Lucia asked, looking puzzled. ‘Would not a new king be elected?

Gyle shook his head. ‘Javon is strange, as I said. If an elected king dies violently, his natural heirs inherit the throne – it is a mechanism intended to deter regicide.’

Korion and Betillon sneered, as did the emperor – Constant had come to the throne after the mysterious deaths of his father and his elder sister.

Gyle waited until he had their attention again. ‘In a few months Salim, the Sultan of Kesh, will present Olfuss with an ultimatum, demanding that Javon support the shihad. Olfuss will of course accede to Salim’s demands: he is half-Rimoni and half-Jhafi and both halves hate Rondelmar passionately. So we must arrange a coup in Javon and restore the Dorobon.’

‘What support do the Dorobon have in Javon?’ asked Kaltus Korion.

‘The Gorgio family are the second-largest Rimoni clan, and were powerbrokers during the Dorobon regime. They have been ostracised since the Nesti coup. They are well-moneyed, but less interbred with the Jhafi, so they have never been – and will never be – elected kings. They will be our prime allies in restoring the Dorobon.’

‘Who is the Dorobon heir?’ enquired Calan Dubrayle.

‘Francis Dorobon is the heir: he is in fact being schooled in Noros and is a classmate of your own son Seth, General Korion. His mother and sister live in Hebusalim, in the Governor’s Palace.’

‘Rid me of their harridan dowager and your plan has my blessing,’ grumbled Tomas Betillon.

‘How many magi have you deployed in Javon, Magister Gyle?’ Lucia asked.

‘Your Holiness, I run a security company, hiring out magi as protectors to important people. It has operated successfully in Noros, Bricia and Lantris for the past ten years, and in Javon for four, since King Olfuss Nesti commissioned my services. I have three magi openly deployed in the palace to “protect” the family; they are ideally situated to dispose of the Nesti at the drop of a hat – my hat, which is at your command.’

‘How nice,’ chuckled Wurther. ‘We have command of a Noroman’s hat.’

‘Can your agents be relied upon to kill Olfuss and his family? Who are they?’ asked Lucia, her eyes gleaming.

‘Rutt Sordell is personal bodyguard to the king; Samir Taguine guards the queen—’

‘Taguine?’ interrupted Korion, ‘the Inferno himself?’ The general looked impressed.

‘The same. And Elena Anborn has charge of Olfuss’ children.’

‘A woman?’ sniffed Tomas Betillon. ‘Will she have what it takes to kill her charges?’

‘Don’t you believe we women capable of doing what Kore demands, Tomas?’ Lucia chided gently. ‘I’m sure Magister Gyle chooses his agents with due care to their capabilities, do you not, sir?’ She gazed frankly at Gyle, her eyes predatory. ‘Will this woman kill the children, Magister Gyle?’

‘She’s a heartless bitch, if you will excuse the term, Holiness,’ he replied levelly. There, Elena, I’ve made your name known to the Empress-Mother, in the best possible way. Fame at last!

Lucia smiled gleefully. ‘Excellent. I like her already—’ She broke off, her brow wrinkling. ‘Wait: she’s an Anborn? Didn’t the Anborns whore themselves to the merchants?’

Gyle inclined his head. ‘Of course you are correct. Her sister Tesla is married to a merchant, but she is now a burnt-out wreck. Elena hasn’t talked to her for years. Elena was one of my Grey Foxes in the Revolt. She has a stone for a heart, your Holiness. She is a killer.’

‘I understand she shares your bed,’ observed Calan Dubrayle.

‘Long ago, my lord. It helped keep her loyal.’

‘A woman should no more do her thinking with her fanny than a man should think with his cock,’ Saint Lucia announced, clearly enjoying the way the men winced at her profanity.

‘So, Gyle, if your cock no longer holds her, what do you have over her? asked Betillon, ever practical. ‘Or indeed any of them, if they decide they have had enough of killing and have enough gold to see out their days?’

‘My lord, my assassins well understand that there is no way out. There are no havens secret enough; no one is untouchable. Disobedience to me is tantamount to signing one’s own death warrant. Also, I control their life-savings: displease me and they lose everything.’

Betillon grinned wryly. ‘That would do it.’ He slurped some wine. ‘When do we strike? Soon would be good – not a day passes in Hebusalim without that Dorobon hag whining on and on about Javon.’

‘Timing is critical. The assassinations will destabilise the realm, so the Dorobon will need time to subdue the kingdom before the Crusade. The plan therefore is to strike in three months’ time, in Octen, giving us nine months until the Moontide. We will kill one daughter and marry the other to a Gorgio, giving a semblance of legitimacy to the new regime and enabling an easier transition of power to the Dorobon.’ He looked about him, saw them nodding slowly. ‘By the time the Leviathan Bridge opens next year, Javon will be in our hands.’

‘What emergency resources do you have?’ asked Dubrayle. ‘Few plans work flawlessly.’

Your plans mightn’t, but mine do. Gyle stopped himself from saying it out loud. ‘I have access to many other magi who can step in, including shape-masters of unsurpassed skill.’ He looked at Mater-Imperia as something flickered in her eyes. Yes, you know who I mean. ‘Should anything go awry, it will be swiftly corrected.’

The room fell silent. He took a cautious sip of the wine. It was an Augenheim Riesling, a fine wine. Too good, unwatered. He pushed it away regretfully.

After half a minute of quiet, Lucia clapped her hands. ‘Thank you, Magister Gyle. Excellent. Stage one of the plan sounds promising.’ She looked around the table. ‘You will all have read the details in the papers I sent you. Are there any objections to considering the Javon Question as being dealt with?’

He held his breath, but there were no objections.

‘Excellent,’ purred Lucia. She reached under the table and rang a bell. The doorman appeared. ‘Ah, Hugo, bring coffee please. We might as well enjoy the fruits of our conquest while we can.’ She smiled around the table, once more the gentle mother of the people.

As they got up to stretch their legs, sipping thimbles of black coffee, Empress-Mother Lucia approached Gyle. He bowed, but she waved the gesture away genially. ‘Tell me more of this woman, Elena Anborn. A woman finds it harder to kill, you know,’ she said, almost apologetically, as though she were not the woman who was rumoured to have murdered her husband in favour of her son-in-law, despatched two lovers during the Interregnum and three since, and ordered both Crusades, each of which had resulted in more than a million deaths.

‘Elena is an altogether selfish creature, Holiness. She is motivated only by personal gain. She will not hesitate.’

Don’t let me down, Elena. Despite everything, don’t let me down.

The Mother of the Nation, Saint of the People, smiled benevolently. ‘You had better be right, Magister Gyle, or I’ll ram a broadsword up her arse. And yours.’ She clapped her hands energetically, evidently revived by the coffee. ‘Gentlemen, to table. Magister Vult has the second part of his plan to talk us through …’