Gloriana's Masque Read online

  “Or not, perhaps,” said Gloriana, in an acidic hiss. “Fair enough. I was forgetting, you people don’t do chivalry. We shall drop that subject, but watch your manners all the same, Ensign. Your precious sealords may feel they have the right to treat me scornfully, but you would be ill-advised to follow their example. However … complete your mission, and I will reward you with rich estates and see that you are raised to the Convocation itself, which I believe would make you the youngest sealord since Berwyn the Berserk, assuming that he ever even existed. I can but hope that is more appealing to you.”

  Now we’re talking, crazy bitch. Well worth a bloodied cheek, methinks. Wary of the prospect of shooting his mouth off, Ashbyrn replied merely with a crisp salute, bending and twisting his right arm so that his clenched fist was at shoulder height, turned inwards, with his left hand clenching the wrist. Since it required both hands, the full salute was rarely used even on ceremonial occasions, and it had acquired the reputation of being a mark of particular respect. It seemed to serve its purpose, as Gloriana responded with a curt but approving nod, and dismissed him without further ado. He was only too glad to be on his way, but the fear he had felt at the prospect of this mission had all but dissipated.

  After he had marched away and the bedchamber door closed behind him, Gloriana drew another sigh, returned to her seat, and slumped back upon the moth-eaten velvet cushions without any pretence at elegance. Seconds later, there was a soft knocking at the door.

  “Come in, Lord Lycon,” she said, listlessly. The door opened and the Third Sealord entered. If he was at all surprised to have his identity known in advance, his grave, weathered face was not letting on. “Why you feel the need to stand on ceremony now, I can’t imagine. You’ve been eavesdropping,” she accused him, not at all reproachfully, but with complete certainty.

  “I would think you’d be disappointed in me now if I hadn’t been,” he said, unapologetically. “As you say, we don’t do chivalry. Mind you, were all those … theatricals necessary?”

  “I’ve no idea what you mean,” she answered, but her sullen tone was fooling no-one, least of all herself.

  “Of course, I’d expected you to want to test his character, but that routine did seem rather to drift from the point. Of course, if you were actually sincere … I mean, I wouldn’t begrudge you. He’s a very handsome young man … if you like that sort of thing.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for that, Milord. I have no time to spare for dalliances.”

  “Really, Your Highness?” he persisted, refusing to take the hint. “It seems to me that we’ve got things as well wrapped up today as they’re ever going to be. The Republican envoys won’t be here for several days. Your future schedule is certainly like to be arduous enough, but I’d sniff the roses while you can, if I were you.”

  “I thank you for your advice, Milord, but I have no interest in–”

  “You know, you could just order him to make nice. It might actually add to your credibility as a ruler. It certainly couldn’t hurt. I could fetch him back here, if–”

  “Enough, if you please, Lycon. I have seen all that I care to see of him, and I am not overly impressed. Are you quite sure he’s the man for the job?”

  “He’s brave, resourceful, and hungry for advancement. Those seem to me to be the key qualifications.”

  “I hope you’re right. I thought him a mere callow youth. Would an experienced man not be better?”

  “An experienced man would ask questions, wonder why we were being so secretive … might well even sell us out to the Convocation and earn himself an easier promotion while we end up swinging from a yardarm. Well, they might let you live just to maintain their lethal new toys, but I doubt you’d be all that comfortable, somehow … No, far better that we place our trust in someone too callow, as you say, to betray us, but with sound courage and combat instincts all the same.”

  “May those be enough, then,” she replied, unconvinced. “This is no raid on some defenceless fishing port. The Obsidian Coast is hostile and savage territory. I have documented all I know on it, and that is little enough, but I somehow doubt it will suffice to storm in, guns blazing, and swipe the goods, so to speak. Our raiders will have need of initiative and wisdom to survive for any length of time.”

  “Master Cædmon has those qualities in abundance, as well as unquestioning obedience to his superiors. He’s a seasoned mariner, to boot, so you can trust him to hold the ensign’s hand.”

  “Not that our commander should need his hand held, but I’ll trust your judgement on this. Goddess help us if you’re wrong.”

  “You can relax about all that, Your Highness. I know my business, and you have yours to worry about: the envoys, remember? Just as I have to stall the sealords, you have to stall them, for as long as it takes our ensign to complete his mission. Unless, of course, you fancy being dragged into a war on the Republic’s terms, or Lord Corin’s, Thalassa forbid … You have the easier task, Your Highness. I’ll need recourse to all my wits if I’m to keep Corin and his fellow warhounds at bay, whereas you just have to focus on entertaining and looking pretty to keep the Lucinians pleasantly distrac–”

  “Was that meant to be a joke, Lycon?” she interrupted, with cold fury. “If so, I’d look into getting your sense of humour amputated if I were you. The alternative might be your head.”

  “I do apologise, Your Highness,” said Lycon, completely unfazed. “No humour intended, I assure you, but I am sorry if my advice causes you any offence. Nevertheless, the point stands. You must be strong and impressive, but gracious and diplomatic. Peace will serve our purposes far better at this stage. At least we have the Lucinian ambassador and his staff safely under lock and key. Hostages are always helpful for a bit of leverage. With your permission, I’ll check in on them. It would be embarrassing to say the least if they died before their fellow-countrymen can even turn up to ransom them.”

  “Of course. See that they have every comfort. Before you go … just out of curiosity, Lord Lycon,” she began, although the intense trepidation in her voice gave the lie to her casual statement. “If I had extended to you the same … proposition as I extended to the ensign just now … would you have accepted?”

  “Assuredly not, Your Highness,” he answered, so bluntly that his callousness briefly astounded her, before he continued. “I am far too old to be out raiding halfway around the globe. Better I give the young bloods their chance to shine.”

  “Damn the mission. I meant … the other stuff … you know. Suppose I made you the same offer with no strings attached … Would you have accepted that?”

  “Even then, I would have to regretfully decline. That sort of private alliance would earn us both enemies very quickly. In the interests of discretion–”

  Fuck your discretion, she thought, miserably. Not that I’m sure if I even want to know what your real answer would be. Deciding that she did not, she cut him off with a curt wave of her hand.

  “Dismissed, Milord. See to your prisoners. I will take your advice and prepare to receive these wretched dignitaries. I make no commitments to ‘looking pretty,’ though. You will all have to take me as you find me.”

  Lycon bowed solemnly and left the room, his face as unmoved as ever. When she was alone again and confident that she was unheard, Gloriana began tearing the decorative ribbons from her arms and legs with ferocity although, frustratingly, they defied all her efforts to inflict any actual damage on them. Having bunched them up and hurled them into the chamberpot for what little catharsis that could provide, she then strode over to the wall-length armoire – a testimony to her predecessor’s vanity – and took from it the only garments that it now contained: worn, high leather boots; a simple steel mask with two eye-slits and a ridged centre, like the faceplate of a helmet; and a grey dress of coarse wool. Unlike in Lucinia, women did not serve in the Brython Navy, but as a mark of recognition for her military contributions, the Convocation allowed Gloriana to wear this design, styled after their
own uniforms. It was long, straight, and close-fitting in the bodice, with silver dragon-headed buttons and arrow-shaped chainmail epaulettes, too small to provide any real protection but certainly good enough for catching the light in a crowd, especially with the gold-plated runes denoting her honorary rank of fleet captain.

  More to the point, It feels right. It feels strong. Looking at herself now fully dressed and masked, in the mirrored door of the armoire, she could actually feel good about herself. Even the shifting colours of the crystal eye, still disturbingly visible through the eye-slit, only seemed to add to the projection of power. This is the real me now, and not that maimed and broken thing they left to die at Malketh. Nevertheless, they will atone for her suffering soon enough, and for all the rest they have inflicted. The eye seemed to glow a little redder at the thought, which pleased her even more. Let them all reject me, as if I needed them anyway … “Looking pretty” is beyond me, but at least only an imbecile could make the mistake of pitying me.

  CHAPTER TWO – THE PEACEMAKERS

  “Will that be everything, Lord Citizen?” asked the Alvere porter, as he secured the last of Secretary Kasimir’s bags in the overhead compartment of his private carriage. “Any refreshments, or would you care for a copy of today’s People’s Light?”

  Just what I wanted: another big dose of bad news, thought Kasimir, bitterly, but there was no help for it. Had their been any new developments, it was his responsibility to keep abreast of them. He nodded curtly as he replied:

  “Yes, thank you, and some coffee. The strong stuff from Daevastan rather than the colonial muck, if you’ve got any.”

  “I think the steward might have a can or two in the VIP stores. I’ll go and check at once, sir.”

  “Good, and after that tell Delator Maradith to join me in here. We’ll need complete privacy until I say otherwise.”

  “I’ll be sure to inform the staff.”

  “Excellent. Any news on our departure, or would that be too much to hope for?”

  “Not yet, Lord Citizen,” replied the porter, with the smooth courtesy of a man long used to delivering disappointing news. “We’re expecting the signal-master at North Junction to telegraph in soon.”

  Right … Soon as in ‘possibly this year.’ As the porter went about his tasks, Kasimir heaved a sigh, leaned back on his plush but threadbare couch, and looked out through his smoke-grimed window into the even grimier expanse of Lyssagrad Central: a scene of once-impressive ironwork coated with rust; railroad staff slouching around in ill-fitting, patched-up uniforms; and the travellers, most of whom were as shabby-looking as the porters, doing nothing to raise the tone of the once-palatial building, now more like some neglected, graffiti-defiled tomb. Decades ago, the steam diligence network had been the pride of all Lucinia and the envy of rival nations, allowing unprecedented ease of travel and communication across the whole length and breadth of the Republic. Time and human nature had done their work, however, and hundreds of thousands of marks that should have gone into maintaining and upgrading the network had somehow ‘found’ their way into the pockets of local officials. The delators had, of course, made painful examples out of several such officials – sometimes even the guilty ones – but the damage had been done. Nowadays, one saw more carts on the roads and horse-drawn barges on the old, weed-choked canals than there had been at any time since before the Revolution.

  Not only have we stagnated; we’ve actually started heading backwards, thought Kasimir, while the Brythons and the Alvere, of all people, seem to be leaping forwards. This does not bode well for anyone, especially us.

  The porter soon returned, with the coffee and the broadsheet on a silver-plated tray. As soon as Kasimir saw the picture on the front page, his heart sank even further. Evidently, the northern office of the Light had somehow managed to sneak a reporter and a heliographer into Alvenheim, and to capture an image of one of these new Brython ships. Even in blurry monochrome, it was a terrifying sight. It had the streamlined profile and the dragon-shaped figurehead typical of the drekkar warships, but there were no masts nor sails to speak of, and the whole deck was covered by a domed canopy. The entire hull was ironclad, or perhaps even made of solid metal: traditional buoyancy was obviously not an issue. A row of cannon-ports was dotted along the side, and at regular points along the bottom of the hull, strange projections jutted out: metallic cylinders with spherical ends, which seemed even blurrier than the rest of the image. Galvano-static generators? mused Kasimir, thinking back to experiments he had seen in his Lyceum days. Something to do with the energy that keeps the damn things afloat? How could this Gloriana be so clever? The headline was no more encouraging: “ALVENHEIM REVOLTS: FEARS OF IMMINENT INVASION.” Lovely … Not at all misleading and provocative, curse those hacks. Making a mental note to have the entire northern office of the Light blacklisted, Kasimir took a golden mark from his waistcoat pocket and tipped the porter.

  “Thank you, Lord Citizen,” said the young Alvere, very sincerely. Well he might, bearing in mind what the RRO pays these poor buggers. As he turned to leave the compartment, Kasimir suddenly put a question to him. It was a question the secretary had hardly dared to ask, partly from sheer dread of the possible answer, and secondly because it was a cruelly loaded question to ask some poor RRO employee merely on account of his race, but Kasimir’s curiosity would not let it rest:

  “Citizen … You’ve heard of this Gloriana, I take it?”

  “I don’t really follow politics, sir,” replied the porter, in a tone that did not completely mask his anxiety, not that better acting would have done him much good, anyway. Attuning his thoughts telepathically, Kasimir could feel the strain the Alvere was under, his fear of giving a displeasing answer, and his eagerness to be gone, but that was nowhere near enough information to reassure the secretary, so he pressed the subject, albeit with as sympathetic an air as possible:

  “You must know who she is, though: this ‘Queen of Alvenheim.’ And you know who I am. You know about the reforms I’ve won for your people: the labour rights, the exemption to practice worship, the education enactments, not to mention that we finally elected our first Alvere sub-prefect last year.” Representing some insignificant little ward out in the northern sticks, with more pigs than constituents, but let’s not dwell on that detail. “I know things are a long way from perfect, Citizen, but do you recall how things were for Alvere only five years ago?”

  “Err … pretty grim, sir,” replied the porter, with extreme caution.

  “Indeed, and there is much still to be done, and I have vowed to do it. Hence why they chose me as envoy to this rebel queen.” Among other things … “Whether I can win her over to peace … That remains to be seen. Rumour has it she is already inciting Alvere citizens to leave the Republic and join her realm. If she’s raising an army, I doubt there is much I can say to sway her, but I’ll try all I can, because I believe the best future for both our races is in working together, as equals, just like the founders of the Revolution intended. I have to ask, though … As an Alvere, do you find her call compelling? Are you moved to join her? Don’t be afraid to answer truly. If you are, in appreciation of your honesty I could even offer to sever your contract and take you to Alvenheim with us.”

  “That’s a fair offer, Lord Citizen,” he replied, with guarded trust in both his words and in his mind, “but I’m a city lad. Born in the docks, raised in Gallowside, married a girl from Ropewalk Alley … Err, not that kind of girl,” he hastily added, in deference to the colourful reputation of that particular street. “What in the Abysm would I do up in the Ydril Mountains, dressed only in my smallclothes and trying to learn how to start fires without matches, carve and shoot stone arrows, hunt bloody wild vargs, I ask you? Do me a favour, I’d be dead in a week … No, things may not be perfect, Lord Citizen, but this is my home anyway, and I’m not about to drag Rica and the boy away from it just because some steel-faced harpy says it’s my ancestral duty. I’ve the right to decide that for myself … Err, re
spectfully, Lord Citizen,” he finished, afraid that his defiant tone might not have been quite to the secretary’s taste, though he could not have been more mistaken. With a relieved smile, Kasimir reached into his pocket and took out another golden mark.

  “That’s a weight off my mind, Citizen,” he declared, tossing him the coin. “Sorry I had to put you through all that. I can appreciate it’s not easy or pleasant, answering a politician’s questions. Especially when I’m travelling with a delator.” If you can call standing at a platform travelling, that is.

  “Oh, I’m sure I’ll get over it, sir,” replied the porter, staring in mild wonder at Kasimir’s very expensive apology. “No harm done … as long as Rica doesn’t think I won this at the cockatrice fights. It might take some explaining … but the delator, of course,” he suddenly remembered. “Begging your pardon. I’ll just go and fetch her.”

  While he was gone, Kasimir turned his attention to the broadsheet, and was relieved to discover that aside from the sensational new heliograph of the lofdreki, it was almost entirely old news: Brython incursion force, flying ships, magic weapons, embassy staff imprisoned, Prince Rowan and his inner circle flayed alive, self-proclaimed Alvere queen challenges the Senate to acknowledge her rule or suffer the consequences, etc. It made no pleasanter reading a second time around, but at least it was more or less devoid of nasty surprises. The only new flies in the already rancid ointment were reports of a few Brython raiding parties looting and raping in the border villages, but that was all too predictable. The Brythons’ reputation for unchecked brutality preceded them to the extent that many powerful nations were now hesitant to even employ them as mercenaries, knowing the difficulties they would eventually face in trying to temper and control their blood-lust.