Sultan means to be sure I go where I say I am going.”
“Into the uttermost west. Why?”
The man stood up and put his back to the fire, splaying his hands out against the heat. There was a flickering blur, like a ripple of shadow around his silhouette. Dweomer-born illusions were always unstable in bright light.
“There is something out there, in the west. I know it. In my research I have come across legends, myths, rumours. They all point to the same conclusion: there is land in the west, and something else. Someone, perhaps. Besides, I am little use to the Sultan as I am. When Shahr Baraz—may he rot in a Ramusian hell—destroyed the homonculus which was my conductor he not only warped my body, he crippled the Dweomer within me. I am still powerful, still Orkh the master-mage, but my powers are not what they were. I would not have that come to light, Batak.”
“Of course. I—”
“You will be discreet. I know. You are a good apprentice. In a few years you will have mastered the Fourth Discipline and you will be a mage yourself. I have left you enough of my library and materials for you to continue your studies even without my guidance.”
“It is the court, master, the harem. They unsettle me. There is more to being the Sultan’s sorcerer than Dweomer.”
Orkh smiled, this time with some real warmth. “I know, but that is something else you must learn. Do not cross the vizier, Akran. And court the eunuchs of the harem. They know everything. And never reveal to the Sultan the limits of your power—never say you cannot do something. Prevaricate, obfuscate, but do not admit to any weakness. Men think mages all-powerful. We want to keep it that way.”
“Yes, master. I will miss you. You have been a good teacher.”
“And you a good pupil.”
“Do you hope to be healed in the west? Is that it? Or are you merely removing yourself from the sight of men?”
“Aurungzeb asked me the same thing. I do not know, Batak. I weary of being a monster, that much I do know. Even a leper does not know the isolation I have suffered, the loneliness. Olov has been my only companion; he is the only creature which looks upon me without fear or disgust.”
“Master, I—”
“It is all right, Batak. There is no need to pretend. In my research, I have discovered that several times in the past centuries ships have sailed for the west and have not returned. They carried passengers—sorcerers fleeing persecution in the Ramusian states. I do not believe that all those ships were lost. I believe there may be survivors or descendants of survivors out there still.”
Batak’s eyes grew round. “And you think they will be able to heal you?”
“I don’t know. But I weary of the intrigues at court. I want to see a new horizon appear with every dawn. And it suits Aurungzeb’s policies. The Ramusians have already sent a flotilla westwards; it left Abrusio months ago under a Gabrionese captain named Richard Hawkwood. They should be in the west now. The Merduk sultanates cannot allow this new world to be claimed by our enemies. I concur with Aurungzeb in that.”
“You know that Shahr Baraz is not dead? He disappeared along with his pasha, Mughal. It is said they rode off eastwards, back into the steppes.”
“I know. My revenge may never happen. He will leave his pious old bones in the Jafrar, or on the endless plains of Kambaksk. It matters not. Other things concern me now.”
Orkh left the fire and strode over to a nearby table which supported an iron-bound chest. He opened the lid, looked in, nodded, then turned to his apprentice once more.
“In here you will find the details of my intelligence network. Names of agents, cyphers, dates of payments— everything. It is up to you to run it, Batak. I have men in every kingdom in the west, most of them risking their lives each day. That is a responsibility which I do not hand over lightly. No one else must ever see the contents of this chest. You will secure it with your most potent spells, and destroy it if there is a possibility of it falling into any other hands except your own—even Aurungzeb’s. Do you understand?”
Batak nodded dumbly.
“There is also a more select network of homonculi, some dormant, some active. I have them planted everywhere, even in the harem. They are the eyes and ears you can trust most, for they are without bias or self-interest. When their bellies are full, at any rate. Use them well; and be discreet. They can be a useful cross-reference to back up the reports of your agents. When you are ready for a familiar, I would advise you to choose a homonculus. They can be wayward, but the ability to fly is always a help and their night vision is invaluable.” Here Orkh’s mouth tilted upwards. “Olov has shown me some rare sights in his nocturnal patrols of the harem. The most recent Ramusian concubine is a delight to behold. Aurungzeb takes her twice nightly, as eagerly as a boy. He has little notion of subtlety, though.”
The mage collected himself.
“At any rate, there is amusement to be had if you use your resources properly, but if you gain information which you should not know I do not have to tell you to keep it to yourself, no matter how useful it might prove. The network must be safe-guarded at all costs.”
“Yes, master.”
Orkh stepped away from the chest. “It is yours, then. Use it wisely.”
Batak took the chest in his arms as though it were made of glass.
“You may go. I find the maintenance of this appearance wearisome. When you ride through the village, tell the escort rissaldar that I will be ready to leave at moonrise tomorrow night. I have some final packing to do.”
Batak bowed awkwardly. As he went out of the door he turned. “Thank you, master.”
“When you see me again—if you do—it will be as a mage, a master of four of the Seven Disciplines. On that day you shall take me by the hand and call me Orkh.”
Batak smiled uncertainly. “I shall look forward to that.”
Then he left.
T HE snow was as crisp as biscuit underfoot and the taloned feet of the beast cracked the surface crust, but the widespread toes stopped it from sinking any deeper. Naked and scaled, its tail whipping back and forth restlessly, it prowled the streets of the sleeping village. The moon glittered from its skin as though it were armoured in many-faceted silver. The glowing eyes blinked as it eased open the shutter of a cottage with inhuman, silent strength. A dark room within, a tiny shape blanket-wrapped in the cradle.
It took the bundle out into the hills, and there it fed, dipping its snout into the steaming, broken body. Sated at last, it raised its head and stared up at the savage, snow-gleaming peaks of the encircling mountains. West, where the sun had set. Where a new life awaited it, perhaps.
It cleaned its snout in the snow. With a bestial form came bestial appetites. But it saved a morsel of the child for Olov.
T HEY were intoning the Glory to God, the
The benches of the monks lined the walls of the triangular cathedral’s base. Monsignors, presbyters and bishops had their own individual seats at the back with ornately carved armrests and kneeling boards. The Inceptines assembled on the right, the other orders—mostly Antillian, but with a few Mercurians—on the left. As the monks sang an old Inceptine with a candle lantern went up and down the rows, nudging any of the brethren who had nodded off. If they happened to wear the white hoods of novices they would receive a kick and a glare rather than a shake of their shoulder.
Himerius the High Pontiff had joined his fellow clerics for Matins this morning, something he rarely did. He was seated facing his brethren, his Saint’s symbol glittering in the light of a thousand beeswax candles. His hawk’s profile was clearly picked out by the candlelight as he sang.
Elsewhere in Charibon, the thousands of other clerics were also awake and paying homage to their God. At
