The Warrior's Tale Part 1

THE WARRIOR'S TALE.

By Allan Cole and Chris Bunch.

Book One

The Chase

One.

Demon at the Gates.

I AM CAPTAIN AM CAPTAIN R RALI E EMILIEANTERO, late of the Maranon Guard. I am a soldier and a soldier I intend to remain until the Dark Seeker slips my guard. Like most soldiers I praise firm ground under my boots, well-made and well-tended weapons and a hot bath and a hot meal after a long forced march. In short, I'm of practical mind and trust common sense over a wizard's blatherings.

For two years, however, I trod the wooden decks of a ship-of-the-line. I fought with rusted blades and was glad we had them. I bathed in cold seas and ate what what I could, I could, when when I could. I was lost in the uncharted Western Ocean, and doubted I'd ever see my home again. As for common sense, it was nearly my undoing; and it was trust in a wizard and magic that saved me. I could. I was lost in the uncharted Western Ocean, and doubted I'd ever see my home again. As for common sense, it was nearly my undoing; and it was trust in a wizard and magic that saved me.

My exploits - and those of my soldiers - have been praised by many. Mythmakers have already coined golden tales of our epic chase across thousands of miles to end history's greatest evil. The stake, they say, was destiny itself, with all civilization hanging in the balance. Truth has been sorely wounded in these myths and with it the lessons learned from so much bloodshed. Without those lessons, if someday darkness threatens again, we may find ourselves disarmed. Besides, I think you'll discover in this case the truth makes a more stirring tale than its prettier sister.

But before you enrich that thief at the bookstall for these adventures, I have a caution: I am a woman. If you object, keep your coin and depart. I shall not miss your presence. All others are welcome to my hearth - this journal. If it's cold, stoke the fire and warm your bones. If you thirst, there's a hot jug of mulled wine just by the hearth-stone. If you hunger, shout up the mess steward for that cold joint I had her put by. Your company is my pleasure. My Scribe warns me some beseeching of the G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses of journal writing is in order here. But I've my own deities to keep content and they're a jealous lot. I've told the old fool a sword beats a quill any day, so the gentle G.o.ds of ink are out of luck. My prayers are saved for those who keep my blood in my skin, and that that tight and whole about my bones. tight and whole about my bones.

At the outset, I gave the Scribe one further order. The words he writes must be mine and mine alone. I do not give a dry wineskin if he objects to my choice of phrases. I will will speak the truth - be it bald as his pate, or plain as that pale, chinless thing he calls a face. The truth doesn't need a Scribe's garlands to sweeten its path. But this fellow is a stubborn, quarrelsome sort - not unlike the three I've already dismissed. I've told him if he persists, I'll cut off his head and mount it on a post outside my door as a warning to his successor. The Scribe says he fears more for his reputation than his head. He keeps babbling about Scholarship and Art. This is a speak the truth - be it bald as his pate, or plain as that pale, chinless thing he calls a face. The truth doesn't need a Scribe's garlands to sweeten its path. But this fellow is a stubborn, quarrelsome sort - not unlike the three I've already dismissed. I've told him if he persists, I'll cut off his head and mount it on a post outside my door as a warning to his successor. The Scribe says he fears more for his reputation than his head. He keeps babbling about Scholarship and Art. This is a history, history, he insists, not a barracks' yarn. he insists, not a barracks' yarn.

I claim the opposite and see no shame. For in arms this story began and in arms it ended. In between there's many a fallen warrior to mourn and many a deed to honour.

It's bad luck to kill a Scribe. Besides, he works for my brother, and I've promised Amalric to return him in good condition. In the interest of family peace I'll let him live. And I hereby warrant all blame for what follows is upon my head and I so warn the reader.

This then, is my tale.

There are those who claim there were evil omens by the cartful on the morning my story begins: nursing mothers whose milk suddenly soured; a two-headed piglet born to a tavern keeper's sow; newly sharpened swords mysteriously gone dull at the Armoury; a witch whose bone-casting cup shattered in mid-toss. There's even a yarn about an Evocator who went mad and turned his wife and mother-in-law into a matched pair of oxen.

I couldn't say. On the day in question I woke with a blazing hangover. It took a long and agonizing moment to orient myself. In happier times I'd have been lying on the big soft bed in the charming home that was my due as commander of the Maranon Guard. Next to me would have been the beautiful Tries. Ahead would be a day that started with a bit of a tickle and a snuggle, a hearty breakfast, and a brisk hour of exercise with the steel-muscled women who make up the Guard. Instead, I found myself in a narrow, bachelors' quarters room, cramped on an iron cot... and very much alone. I'd fled my own home three weeks before after our final, angry row. And the previous evening I'd seen my former lover in the company of a fellow Guardswoman with a notorious reputation. She was considered darkly handsome by some, but to my mind she was greasy, wanted bathing and had the shadow of a budding moustache on her upper lip. She was sure to be the ruin of my innocent Tries.

I'd treated my wounded feelings with first one jug of hot spiced wine, then another until evening became late night, a blur of loud song, alley stumblings, perhaps a fight, and finally the release of falling stuporous upon that hard bed.

I enjoy strong drink - but rarely to excess. The G.o.ddess blessed me with a quick, powerful body, eyes that can count the lice in the feathers of a distant sparrow and a clear, agile brain. This is no boast, but only the particulars of the gifts I was born with. I did nothing to earn these things, so have always seen it my duty to keep all in as fine a fighting order as the weapons I carry. Drink is as great an enemy to the body and mind as dirt and rust are to a st.u.r.dy blade.

All these things I told myself, as Madame Shame hounded me from the bed and I put my bare feet on the cold stone floor. As a thousand booted troops marched through my head and a thousand more squatted on my tongue, rebellion broke out in my belly, and I rushed for the chamberpot to surrender my innards. As I knelt there making a drunkard's penance, it suddenly came to me this was my mother's feast day. Each year, on the anniversary of her death, my family gathers at Amalric's villa to honour her memory. I retched again as Dame Guilt-that old fishwife - shrilled with joy at a new weakness revealed.

Drunk on this this day, of day, of all all days, she asked. I'm not drunk, d.a.m.n you! I snarled back. I'm only days, she asked. I'm not drunk, d.a.m.n you! I snarled back. I'm only suffering suffering from drink. It was Tries's fault, the s.l.u.t! Go ahead, blame that poor girl, Dame Guilt whined. Meanwhile, your mother's ghost will flee your foul breath and be forced into the company of strangers. She'll wander the earth mourning the low state her darling daughter has fallen into. from drink. It was Tries's fault, the s.l.u.t! Go ahead, blame that poor girl, Dame Guilt whined. Meanwhile, your mother's ghost will flee your foul breath and be forced into the company of strangers. She'll wander the earth mourning the low state her darling daughter has fallen into.

'Begone, d.a.m.n you!' I bellowed. Then I groaned, for I'd shouted aloud and another angry mob charged about my belly. As I hunched over the chamberpot, the door swung open behind me.

'I see we're at prayer to the porcelain G.o.ddess,' came a sarcastic voice. 'You are an inspiration to us all, my Captain.'

I wiped my chin, came to my feet, and with as much dignity as I could muster, turned to confront my new challenger. It was Corais, one of my chief legates. She was slender and wiry and reminded me of a cat - especially the way she grinned and toyed with her game before she ate it. At the moment, I was her mouse, and she was hugely enjoying my misery.

'Leave off, Legate,' I growled. 'I'm in no mood for sarcasm.'

Corais's grin only grew wider, sharp white teeth flashing behind sensuous lips, dark eyes sparkling with amus.e.m.e.nt. 'I never would've guessed, Captain,' she said. 'You hide your troubles so well I doubt there's a woman in the Guard who knows Tries has banned you from her bed ... and taken up with another.'

I slumped on the cot, defeated. 'Don't tell me,' I moaned. 'I was shouting it from the rooftops, wasn't I?'

'Not shouting, exactly,' Corais said. 'But you certainly were in good voice. And although our fair city's roofs remained safe, Polillo did did have to drag you down from the water tower on the parade-ground.' have to drag you down from the water tower on the parade-ground.'

As I picked at this new scab of humiliation, another voice joined us. It rumbled down the hallway like distant thunder: 'Who speaks my name?' The voice was followed by heavy bootsteps and an immense form filled the doorway. The speaker continued: 'By the G.o.ddess who made me, I swear if I catch someone talking behind my back, I'll cut off her left t.i.t and have it tanned for my purse.'

It was Polillo, who, with Corais, was my other chief legate. As she said the last words, she ducked under the doorway, and strode into the room. Polillo was well over seven feet tall, with amazingly long shapely legs and a perfectly proportioned figure padded just enough to hide ropy muscles that became steely knots when she hefted her battle-axe. Her skin was nearly as fair as mine, and where my hair was golden, hers was closer to a light brown. If she'd been a courtesan instead of a warrior, Polillo would've soon made her fortune.

When she saw it was me sitting on the bed, she was instantly taken aback. 'Oh ... I'm sorry, Captain. I didn't know-'

I waved her to silence. 'I'm the one who owes apologies all around,' I said. 'But if you really feel the need - the line starts behind the chamberpot.'

Polillo boomed laughter and clapped me on the back, nearly breaking my shoulder with her good humour. 'You just need a good fight to set you straight, Captain,' she said. 'And unless those snivelling Lycanthians turn coward, you'll get it soon enough.'

The mention of Lycanth opened the door to responsibility. I groaned to my feet, stripped off my sleeping tunic and padded to the basin. A servant had crept in while I slept and there was a pitcher of still-steaming water, perfumed with a cleansing aromatic on a pedestal next to the basin.

I called over my shoulder to Corais, 'What's the news?'

In the mirror, I saw Corais shrug. 'No news, really. Just a lot of rumours... some good... some bad. The only thing that's certain is we're still on the road to war.'

Three weeks before, the Archons of Lycanth had tossed down the gauntlet - sending out a warfleet to sever our links with our allies and hara.s.s our trading ships. Their action had come the very day Tries and I'd gone our separate, stormy ways. And as I speak these words to the Scribe, I realize there was no coincidence. My profession was at the heart of our quarrel, and since my profession is war, the news from Lycanth fell like a sword between us.

'War might be certain,' I said to Corais, gloomy, 'but what's not is whether our exalted leadership will allow the Maranon Guard to serve.'

Polillo sputtered. 'But we're the finest soldiers in Orissa. I'd match any one one of us against any ten men from any barracks or drill field in the city. Why, in the name of Maranon, wouldn't they let us fight?' of us against any ten men from any barracks or drill field in the city. Why, in the name of Maranon, wouldn't they let us fight?'

She was only exaggerating our abilities a little, but the answer to her question was in my mirror, as I saw the reflection of my body. Inside, I was a warrior. But in a world commanded by men, the outside made me something less in their view. I saw the tilt in my long neck and knew it to be dainty in appearance - never mind the cables that leaped up when I hefted my sword; my skin has always been my pride: it's pleasing to the eye and touch, but suffers little from heat, cold, or hard exercise; although I'm past thirty summers, my b.r.e.a.s.t.s are firm and high, with nipples of virginal pink; the tuck of my waist is sharp; my hips, although narrow, flare like a bell; and finally, I saw the golden triangle between my thighs that marked my s.e.x.

It was unlikely the Magistrates would let us fight for three - for them - very good reasons: (i) We were women; (2) We were women; and (3) We were women.

Everyone in Orissa knows of of the Maranon Guard, but few know much about it - other than the obvious fact it is composed solely of women. We are an elite unit whose beginnings stretch back into the city's dim history. Our usual force is five hundred souls, although in war it's reinforced to nearly twice that number. We all praise the name and pledge our lives to the service of Maranonia, the G.o.ddess of War. We must forswear men upon entering the Guard - although, for most of us, this isn't much of a strain. I'm not unusual in my taste for a woman's company, and a woman's love. Besides, in this so-called civilized age we live in, the Maranon Guard is the only world a woman the Maranon Guard, but few know much about it - other than the obvious fact it is composed solely of women. We are an elite unit whose beginnings stretch back into the city's dim history. Our usual force is five hundred souls, although in war it's reinforced to nearly twice that number. We all praise the name and pledge our lives to the service of Maranonia, the G.o.ddess of War. We must forswear men upon entering the Guard - although, for most of us, this isn't much of a strain. I'm not unusual in my taste for a woman's company, and a woman's love. Besides, in this so-called civilized age we live in, the Maranon Guard is the only world a woman can can escape to if she does not wish to be wife, mother, or wh.o.r.e. Among those who still yearn for a man's bed, the trade-off is certainly not worth the price of a mounting. escape to if she does not wish to be wife, mother, or wh.o.r.e. Among those who still yearn for a man's bed, the trade-off is certainly not worth the price of a mounting.

My silence did nothing to stop Polillo's probing. As I finished washing and dressed, she kept worrying at the subject, like a gutter lizard with a pig bone.

'They're sure sure to let us march with the men,' Polillo insisted. 'Isn't that so, Corais?' to let us march with the men,' Polillo insisted. 'Isn't that so, Corais?'

Corais gave another of her elegant shrugs. It was the kind that answered questions that hadn't been thought of yet. She was a small, slender woman, with beautiful dark features. Although she was no weakling, speed and cunning were her game. I alone in the Guard could best her with a sword - and I'm not boasting when I say that in all my years as a soldier, I've yet to meet my better with a blade.

'If we march, we march,' I said. 'If we don't, we'll accept whatever mission they give us. We must be ready - no matter what our orders.'

My outward att.i.tude was a lie. Inside I was burning with more than the effects of too much wine. The Maranon Guard had rarely been hurled into distant combat. Although we'd proven ourselves many times in our long and honourable history by fighting last-ditch stands at our city's gates, the Magistrates and Evocators consistently refused our pleas to join our brother warriors in battle on foreign sh.o.r.es. We were a force of last resort, we were told. Our holy mission was to guard Orissa. But there was not a woman among us who did not know the real reason, and that was our s.e.x; which made us lowly beings - pretty pet things that must be protected - in our leaders' eyes.

Polillo stamped her foot in a fury. 'I'll fight,' she vowed. 'And there's not a man in this city who can stop me!'

'You'll do as you're ordered,' I snapped. 'And if you wish to remain a legate, you'll keep your views to yourself. I'll not have the women riled up by a lot of hot talk.'

'Yes, Captain,' Polillo said. But her head drooped and her full lips trembled. 'It's not fair.'

Corais patted her, soothing. 'Why don't we get in a little work with your axe?' she said. 'We'll write the names of the Council of Magistrates on the practice dummies and you can lop off their heads.'

Polillo wiped "away a solitary tear and made a smile. She was a woman who was quick to anger - sometimes dangerously so - and wore her heart pinned to her tunic. But her saving grace was that her good humour was usually easy to restore.

'You're a good friend, Corais,' she said. 'You always know how to get me out of one of my moods.'

But as they started towards the practice field, Polillo said: 'Why don't you talk to your brother, Captain? Maybe he can tweak a few Magistrate noses on our behalf.'

'I don't like to use my family connections,' I replied. 'The Guard will have to stand ... or fall... on its own.'

Polillo frowned, but Corais pulled her away. I finished dressing in solitude. I'd just enough time to make it to Amalric's villa for the rites honouring my mother. I wore my ceremonial uniform: gleaming boots, a short white tunic, polished harness bearing my sword and dagger, a golden, waist-length cloak, half a dozen slender gold rings on each wrist; and to top the outfit off, a wide gold band encircled my head. I sprinkled on some orange blossom scent and got out my favourite earrings. They were also of gold: in the left ear I pinned a jewelled, miniature spear - fashioned after the one our G.o.ddess carried; in the other, a replica of Maranonia's torch - bejewelled as well.

I made one final check in the mirror. As I stared into it, I found myself fingering the dangling torch - the symbol for our G.o.ddess's vigilant search for wisdom. Perhaps Polillo was right. Maybe I was letting my pride stand in the way of the honour my Guard deserved.

Very well, then, I decided - I'd talk to Amalric. If anyone could kick those Magistrates' fat a.r.s.es into motion, it was my youngest brother.

The city was in the grip of war fever as I rode through it. Although war had not been officially declared, there was no mistaking that hot emotion had already outreached ceremony. At the Evocators' Palace on the hill, black smoke boiled from the chimneys of the conference rooms where our Magistrates huddled with the Evocators for wizardry advice. In the streets, people were buying goods at the market stalls at a furious pace - loading wagons and sacks with whatever they feared might soon be scarce. Young bravos dashed through the streets on horse and afoot, shouting war slogans and making silly boasts about what they intended to do when they met the enemy on the field. Pretty maids were ogling the boys from windows and doorways, and I didn't doubt they'd be slipping off to meet them before the day was through. Taverns were doing a booming trade, as were the witches' booths at the market, where many a crone was tossing bones, or peering into b.l.o.o.d.y animal organs for signs of what the future held. The armourers' shops were a racket of hammers against metal, and I knew that deep in the bowels of the Evocators' Palace, the spell-casters were hard at work coming up with the latest in magical weapons. Why our superiors were still talking, instead of doing, doing, was beyond me. was beyond me.

Like most soldiers, I am a fatalist - what will be, will be. I don't like politicians much because they tend to obscure the intentions of the fates. They rail on as if there really were choices, when it would be better to keep your peace, and study what was sure to come. Show me a mountain pa.s.s, with a thing of value at the end of it, and I promise you that by and by troops with greedy intentions will march along that path. Point out a good ambush site - no matter how empty the wilderness - and I'll give you a drunken corporal's odds that if blood hasn't already been spilled at that site, it's only a matter of time before it will be.

In my mind the facts of the matter were the Lycanthians were our natural enemies and should be quickly dispatched to the afterlife. We were as different as day and night. Orissa is a merchant city, filled with life, laughter, and a love of the arts. We're a river people, and like all river folk we're dreamers. We see the worth of hard labour against a stiff current to achieve a thing, because we know how easy it'll soon be to lie back and bask in the sun and let that same current carry us swiftly home.

Lycanth, on the other hand, was a creature born on a hard coast from an unruly sea. Its citizens trusted no one and coveted all. They lived willingly under the yoke of two Archons, whose every word - no matter how evil - was strict law. The Lycanthians were dreamers as well, but they dreamed of conquests as they stirred in their sleep on that rocky coast. They dreamed of a vast kingdom, made up of our lands and beyond, where we would work as their happy slaves.

Over the years we'd fought Lycanth many times - our talent as soldiers barely winning the day over their skills as seafaring warriors and willingness to accept the most appalling casualties in ma.s.sed frontal charges. The last time we'd nearly hammered them into oblivion, but held back from a final obliterating blow. You may think that was wise, agreeing with the politicians who said a weakened Lycanth was better than no Lycanth at all; their presence kept other enemies from our borders. You may not be surprised I disagree. My reasons: (i) Their Archons began conspiring against us from the first day of their defeat; (2) Amalric and the late - unlamented by me -Janos Greycloak were stalked and harried at every turn during their expeditions to find the Far Kingdoms; (3) When Amalric and Janos discovered the land we now know as Irayas, they also uncovered a conspiracy by the Archons and Prince Raveline to betray Orissa and Raveline's own brother, the'King of Irayas.

Is that enough for you? This bloodless thing who poses as my Scribe says no matter what the outcome, the original decision was humane, and, therefore, correct. Let me continue to number the facts that make up my case: (4) My brother returned from the Far Kingdoms with not only rich trading contracts, but tremendous magical knowledge which King Domas had agreed to share with us; The Archons of Lycanth were immediately seized with envy and especially fear that with this new knowledge they would soon lose all hope of fulfilling their dreams of rising from the ashes to destroy us; They went immediately to work speeding up their secret rearming. Facts (7) and (8) are less debatable, and had happened very recently and at almost the same time.

Secret patrols our leaders had been wise enough to post just beyond Lycanth's limits - near the neck of the peninsula the city was built on -returned with a shocking report: Lycanth's great wall stood again. It'd been built epochs earlier, even before the Lycanthians began their attempts at empire-building, and reinforced over the eons not only by slave work-gangs but by all the protective magics the Archons could cast. Then, during that last war- which my father, Paphos Antero, had fought in - all Orissa's Evocators combined to birth a great spell, and the wall was cast down in a single night. Now the wall stood once more; a barrier that served as mocking proof the Archons had done more than merely conspire with Prince Raveline - some of his black secrets must have been imparted to the Lycanthian rulers as well.

That would've been enough in itself for war, but the Archons - and this is the last of my reasons - broke every peace agreement between the two cities, and sent out their fleet to harry our merchant ships and those of our allies. It was a deliberate act of war, although I prefer to think of it as no more than piracy and the Lycanthians no better than any other bandit clan.

My Scribe is giving me a grudging nod. If that little rodent has conceded defeat, I feel safe in a.s.suming your added agreement. When Lycanth last fell we should've razed their city, dispersed their people to the ends of the earth so the name Lycanth would be meaningless in a generation, and sowed salt in the ground their cursed city had been built on.

Where was I? Oh, yes: the politicians were politicking, the Evocators were wizarding, the lads were boasting, the maids were flirting, and Orissa was girding itself for war. And I was off to my brother's place to make peace with my dead mother.

The whole family - except Amalric - was gathered before her garden shrine by the time I arrived. It was during the Holy Hour of Silence, so I got some angry looks from my three other brothers and sniffs of superiority from their wives. But they're a mean-spirited lot and easy to ignore. Sometimes I doubt they're truly Anteros, and believe my father must've made them on the cot of some stingy wh.o.r.e. So when Omyere waved for me to join her, I was grateful to slip through the ranks of brothers, cousins and other chilly kin to a seat by her side.

Omyere leaned close to whisper: 'Amalric is at the palace. He should return soon.'

I nodded - it was no surprise my youngest brother would be at the heart of things. My mind buzzed with arguments I'd put to him later-but soon the silence of the others, and the peaceful scent and colour of the garden, let all those busy thoughts slip away.

My mother, Emilie, was a modest woman, who thought decorated shrines and altars were unseemly. I was just entering womanhood when she died, and my father was too grief-stricken to properly tend her needs for the afterlife. Amalric was still a toddler then, and although my other brothers - especially Porcemus, the oldest - were intent on building an elaborate temple-like thing in her honour, I fought fiercely on her behalf and won. Instead of the temple, a simple stone shrine was set beneath a small rose tree. Instead of an elaborate simulacrum painting of her features - such as the one that graced the shrine to my dead brother, Halab - I demanded the stone remain blank. However, my mother had a love for the sound of gently running water, so I got an Evocator to cast a spell that made a small stream trickle continually down the face of the shrine, to run into a little pool now covered with fallen rose blossoms.

As I looked at the shrine, I felt pride stir from more than twenty years past. It was my first real victory. I'd been a wild child, who loved to run up trees, hurl stones at birds and beat up little boys who called me a girl with sneering lips. Everyone was constantly complaining about the mischief I caused - except my father and mother. My father said I'd grow but of it and would soon be simpering about like any other pretty maid. My mother said nothing either way, but when I was in her company and did something ruffian-like, she only smiled and acted as if it were normal. She encouraged me to learn and made father get me a tutor just like boys of wealthy families. And when I confessed to her one fateful hot night - when we were all alone in her room and the air was thick with mother-daughter secrets - that above all things I wanted to be a soldier, she did not gasp in shock, or weep from imagined failure. Instead she told me there were many things she'd wanted to accomplish in her her life, but because of her s.e.x, had never had the chance. life, but because of her s.e.x, had never had the chance.

'Oh, why,' I mourned in great youthful pa.s.sion, 'were we born women, Mother? Why couldn't we have been born men?'

Now, she expressed shock. 'That's not what I meant,' she said. 'I've never wished to grow a man's parts. As far as I've been able to see, a p.e.n.i.s does nothing but weaken the brain. No, my dear, don't pray to be a man. Only pray to have the same freedom as men, and if you get it, you will be content. I'll tell you a secret. I think someday our time will come, and when it does, women are much more capable of looking after the world than any man I've ever met.'

'I can't wait that long,' I cried. 'I'll be old, and they don't let old people be soldiers.'

My mother looked at me for a long time, then nodded. 'If that's what you want,' she said, 'then that's what you shall be.'

A week later my father hired a retired sergeant to teach me to fight. He never said a word to me about it, but only smiled when I complained of bruises after a hard day of getting drubbed by a wooden sword. A year later, that smile cut from ear to ear as I'd bested the sergeant in every skill, and he had to trade him for someone more adept. By the time my mother died I was better than any youth in the city - or at least those willing to test themselves against a warrior girl. I was a young woman of sixteen when I entered the Maranon Guard. I've never looked back.

The sweet strings of a lyre coaxed me out of my reverie. It was Omyere - who'd left my side unnoticed - and was now sitting on a stool by the shrine playing that wonderful instrument of hers. She looked at me across the others as she played, and began to sing a gentle song I knew was meant for me. I saw the soft fall of her red hair - as bright red as Amalric's - and thought my brother a lucky man to find such a woman. I had a lover once, I thought, who'd touched me like Omyere must touch my brother. Not Tries - but Otara, she of the throaty laugh, soft arms, and fingers that could stroke the demons from my head. She was my lover for many years before she died and I suppose in many ways she'd replaced my mother.

Forgive me, if I weep, Scribe. But do not smirk, as if to say that is the nature of a woman. If you dare do such a thing - or even think it-I'll forget my vow and you'll not leave this room to smirk at another. Otara is close to my heart, and when I swore I'd speak only the truth, I knew very well I'd have to reveal things that are against my nature to uncover. There may be more weeping before this book is done - so beware, lest some of the tears that fall become yours. Now, let me wipe my eyes and gather my thoughts ...

As Omyere sang, I mourned Otara - just as she'd meant. The song changed and I felt cleansed. The lyre took up a playful tune. It made me think of my mother's laugh and I reflexively looked at the shrine. I watched the water running along the moss that clung to the stone and imagined the shape formed by moss, water and rose-petal shadows to be my mother's face. It seemed to come alive and I saw her eyes open and her lips move. There was the heady scent of sandalwood - my mother's favourite perfume. I felt a warm hand touch my neck and thought I heard a whisper - my mother's voice. It was so low I couldn't make out what she said, but I knew if I listened closer I could hear quite easily. I think I became afraid ... Actually, I'm sure of it, for I suddenly thought, This is nonsense. It's the hangover still at work. Your mother was an ordinary mortal, like yourself. Certainly not the kind to play at ghosts. I s.n.a.t.c.hed my head back, and the whisper broke off. The scent was gone and when I looked at the shrine, so was the face. Omyere had stopped playing. I saw her frown, and shake her head. I felt like I'd missed something very important - and the loss was painful.

Then all thoughts of loss, lovers and ghosts vanished in a thundering of hooves outside the villa walls. Amalric was back from the Evocators' Palace.

He'd returned with news that war had been declared. The remainder of my mother's feast day collapsed in a babble of fright and excitement. Every citizen of Orissa was expected to gather at the Great Amphitheatre that night to hear the public announcement, undoubtedly to be accompanied by various morale-boosting displays.

My brother soothed everyone as best he could and tried to keep his temper as they deluged him with stupid questions: how long did he think the war would last; what kind of financial suffering did the family face; what goods did he think would become scarce, so they could begin their h.o.a.rding now with an eye to black-marketeering in the future. Although Amalric is the youngest of my father's children, he's the unquestioned head of family. My father had wisely pa.s.sed over my other brothers - all as weak and lazy as they were foolish - to bequeath his merchant empire to Amalric. Obviously, a lot of jealousy and hard feelings were stirred up, but my brother's force of personality, plus his fame as the discoverer of the Far Kingdoms, kept the weasels cowed in their dens. Eventually, he caught my eye and motioned to meet him in his study. Then he shooed them all home with reminders to attend the great meeting.

As I took a seat near his writing desk a few minutes later, I could see from the grim set of his mouth and high colour of his skin, there was more news than just the declaration of war.

'What are you hiding, Brother dear?' I asked. 'Go ahead... tell me the worst.'

He laughed, but the sound was harsh. 'I can't ever keep anything from you, can I, Big Sister?'

'It comes from long practice, my dear,' I replied. 'Before you became a grown man and such a - dare I say it - responsible responsible sort, I caught you with lizards in your pockets, and a little later, doxies in your bed.' sort, I caught you with lizards in your pockets, and a little later, doxies in your bed.'

My brother had been so young when our mother died, I'd practically raised him. We'd always been close, sharing secrets we'd never dream of mentioning even to our loved ones.

'So, out with it, Amalric,' I said. 'Tell your wise sister what those fools at the palace are in such a panic about.'

Amalric made a wry grin. 'Even though we have had plenty of notice,' he said, 'our troops are hardly prepared for a real war.'

'That goes without saying,' I replied. 'Although my my women are ready enough. We've doubled our training schedule and have remained on full alert since we heard the first rattlings of Lycanthians' swords. I've even, without orders, put extra recruiters out around the girls' lycees and marketplaces, paying their expenses from one of my discretionary funds, for which initiative I could probably be relieved.' women are ready enough. We've doubled our training schedule and have remained on full alert since we heard the first rattlings of Lycanthians' swords. I've even, without orders, put extra recruiters out around the girls' lycees and marketplaces, paying their expenses from one of my discretionary funds, for which initiative I could probably be relieved.'

My undisguised tone alerted him to my bitter feelings. He gave me an odd look, then moved on.

'Well, the rest of our troops will be doing the same now,' he said. 'Especially after the Magistrates were done spanking our incompetent commanders.'

'They'll be up to the mark, soon enough,' I said, grudgingly admitting my brother soldiers were not totally without worth. 'Which means that problem will be quickly solved and everyone knows it. So if the Magistrates and Evocators are still s.h.i.tting their breeches, then the trouble must be really really big.' big.'