Read Online Moontide 02 - The Scarlet Tides by David Hair - Free Book Online
Authors: David Hair
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observation hole. He’d enhanced it, removing a brick, then creating the illusion that it was still there. No childish false eyes or easily detectable holes for him. The only risk was a cleaner poking their broom through, but he stopped it up with a real brick when he wasn’t using it.
Now he pulled the brick aside and peered through, just as Godspeaker Acmed finished the Mantra of Family, which enabled the women to forsake their bekira-shrouds and speak openly. Cera and Elena pulled off the shapeless black cloaks and the meeting came to order. Gyle’s view was from behind one row of councillors, with Cera seated to his left, furthest from the door. Elena Anborn sat on her right hand – except it wasn’t Elena, of course: it was Rutt Sordell. Elena’s face was hard for him to look at: she seemed subtly
wrong
, to one who knew her so well. But no one else noticed. The councillors had been told of a failed attempt on Cera’s life. Solinde had died, and Lorenzo di Kestria, but Cera and Elena had survived and slain the attacker. That was all they needed to know
The others about the table were familiar faces: the faithful Nesti retainers, promoted by Olfuss to the royal bureaucracy when he became king: jovial Master of the Purse Pita Rosco, his bald pate gleaming in the sunlight that was pouring through the high windows. His spiritual opposite, sour old Luigi Ginovisi, the Master of Revenues. Comte Piero Inveglio, the merchant nobleman whose voice tended to carry the most weight. Conservative, bitter Seir Luca Conti, the grizzled knight who led the Nesti soldiery and, by extension, the armies of Javon.
Opposite the Nesti loyalists were the Brochena faction: Don Francesco Perdonello, the tall, high-browed Chancellor, head of the bureaucracy, and two of his departmental heads who seldom spoke except to confirm Perdonello’s utterances. Signor Ivan Prato, the young Sollan drui whom Cera preferred to the older, more highlyranked clergy, and of course the pricklish Godspeaker Acmed al-Istan, representing the Amteh Faith, completed the roster.
There was no Lorenzo di Kestria, who was dead, and his role as head of the Queen’s Guard had not yet been filled. Also missing was the urbane Harshal ali-Assam, who had been sent out some months ago to negotiate a deal with the Harkun nomads infesting the southeastern deserts of Javon.
‘My lords, welcome. I apologise for the illness which has incapacitated me these past two weeks. But I am well again, and there is much to do.’ Cera’s voice carried clearly to him. Over the past year she’d learnt how to run a meeting, dominating rooms of men many years her senior – an unexpected development, thrust upon her when Gyle had murdered her father and mother.
And yet here we are, working together.
‘Thank you for your condolences for the death of Solinde. I know that she shamed the family name last year, but she was my sister, and Timori and I loved her.’ Cera paused, swallowing. ‘I see from the minutes of the last meeting that you voted a message of condolence to the di Kestria family for the loss of Lorenzo, their youngest son. He was Commander of my guards, and much-loved. I endorse that message of sorrow.’
She barely sounds like a girl of almost nineteen,
Gyle reflected.
She is more queenly than Mater-Imperia herself, in truth.
He could sense Elena’s hand in her development. Elena and Cera had grown close, especially after the Gorgio coup and the death of Olfuss.
She must become my tool now.
‘What happened that night, Princessa?’ Pita Rosco asked gently. ‘There are so many rumours, but you and Elena were right there, and you have said little. Did Gurvon Gyle come? Who was the Rondian you slew?’
Elena spoke up – or rather, Rutt Sordell did. Gyle winced inwardly: Rutt Sordell was a powerful magus, but he was no actor, no mimic. The voice patterns sounded wrong to him, and it wasn’t just the recent throat wound that had left Elena’s voice deeper and
Now he pulled the brick aside and peered through, just as Godspeaker Acmed finished the Mantra of Family, which enabled the women to forsake their bekira-shrouds and speak openly. Cera and Elena pulled off the shapeless black cloaks and the meeting came to order. Gyle’s view was from behind one row of councillors, with Cera seated to his left, furthest from the door. Elena Anborn sat on her right hand – except it wasn’t Elena, of course: it was Rutt Sordell. Elena’s face was hard for him to look at: she seemed subtly
wrong
, to one who knew her so well. But no one else noticed. The councillors had been told of a failed attempt on Cera’s life. Solinde had died, and Lorenzo di Kestria, but Cera and Elena had survived and slain the attacker. That was all they needed to know
The others about the table were familiar faces: the faithful Nesti retainers, promoted by Olfuss to the royal bureaucracy when he became king: jovial Master of the Purse Pita Rosco, his bald pate gleaming in the sunlight that was pouring through the high windows. His spiritual opposite, sour old Luigi Ginovisi, the Master of Revenues. Comte Piero Inveglio, the merchant nobleman whose voice tended to carry the most weight. Conservative, bitter Seir Luca Conti, the grizzled knight who led the Nesti soldiery and, by extension, the armies of Javon.
Opposite the Nesti loyalists were the Brochena faction: Don Francesco Perdonello, the tall, high-browed Chancellor, head of the bureaucracy, and two of his departmental heads who seldom spoke except to confirm Perdonello’s utterances. Signor Ivan Prato, the young Sollan drui whom Cera preferred to the older, more highlyranked clergy, and of course the pricklish Godspeaker Acmed al-Istan, representing the Amteh Faith, completed the roster.
There was no Lorenzo di Kestria, who was dead, and his role as head of the Queen’s Guard had not yet been filled. Also missing was the urbane Harshal ali-Assam, who had been sent out some months ago to negotiate a deal with the Harkun nomads infesting the southeastern deserts of Javon.
‘My lords, welcome. I apologise for the illness which has incapacitated me these past two weeks. But I am well again, and there is much to do.’ Cera’s voice carried clearly to him. Over the past year she’d learnt how to run a meeting, dominating rooms of men many years her senior – an unexpected development, thrust upon her when Gyle had murdered her father and mother.
And yet here we are, working together.
‘Thank you for your condolences for the death of Solinde. I know that she shamed the family name last year, but she was my sister, and Timori and I loved her.’ Cera paused, swallowing. ‘I see from the minutes of the last meeting that you voted a message of condolence to the di Kestria family for the loss of Lorenzo, their youngest son. He was Commander of my guards, and much-loved. I endorse that message of sorrow.’
She barely sounds like a girl of almost nineteen,
Gyle reflected.
She is more queenly than Mater-Imperia herself, in truth.
He could sense Elena’s hand in her development. Elena and Cera had grown close, especially after the Gorgio coup and the death of Olfuss.
She must become my tool now.
‘What happened that night, Princessa?’ Pita Rosco asked gently. ‘There are so many rumours, but you and Elena were right there, and you have said little. Did Gurvon Gyle come? Who was the Rondian you slew?’
Elena spoke up – or rather, Rutt Sordell did. Gyle winced inwardly: Rutt Sordell was a powerful magus, but he was no actor, no mimic. The voice patterns sounded wrong to him, and it wasn’t just the recent throat wound that had left Elena’s voice deeper and
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