by Paul Kearney
“That is our answer. Take it back to your master, and make it clear to him that there will be no second chance. I am King here now, and I will not hesitate to mobilise every able man in my kingdom to back my words. He no longer fights an army, but an entire people. This is his choice, now and only now—peace, or a war that will last another hundred years. Tell him to think carefully. His decision will alter the very fate of the world for him and all those who come after him. Now you may go.”
Mehr Jirah bowed. He nodded at Albrec, and then turned on his heel and left. Corfe took his seat once more. “Passifal, our next supplicant, if you please.” He had to raise his voice to make himself heard above the surf of talk in the hall.
Odelia leaned over the arm of her throne and whispered fiercely in his ear.
“Are you out of your mind? Have you no notion of diplomacy at all? We had a chance to halt the war, but you are set on starting it again.”
“No. I may be no diplomat, but I have some military insight. He can’t fight on. We’ve beaten him, and he has to be told that. And I didn’t fight Armagedir so that I could place my neck in a Merduk yoke. He thinks he knows what war is; he has no idea. If he is stupid and proud enough to keep fighting, I will show him how war can be waged.”
There was such contained ferocity about Corfe as he spoke that Odelia’s retort died in her throat. At that moment she realised she had overreached herself. She had thought that Corfe, once King, would be content to lead armies and fight wars while she negotiated the treaties and dictated policy. She knew better now. Not only would he rule, and rule in all things, but other rulers would want to deal with him and him alone, not with his ageing Queen. It was he who had won the war, after all. It was he whom the common people mobbed in the streets and cheered at every opportunity. Even her own attendants looked first to him.
She uttered a bitter little laugh that was lost in the next fanfare. All her life she had ruled through men. Now one had come to power through her, and reduced her to a cipher.
A URUNGZEB received Mehr Jirah in silence. In the sumptuous ostentation of his tent he had Corfe’s words relayed to him by the mullah and listened patiently as his officers and aides expressed outrage at the Ramusian’s insolence. His Queen sat beside him, also silent. He took her cold hand, thinking of his son in her belly and what world he might be born into. He had the makings of it here, at this moment. And for the first time in his life he was afraid.
“Batak,” he said at last. “That little beast of yours flits about the Torunnan palace day and night. What say you in this matter?”
The mage pondered a moment. “I think his words, my Sultan, are not empty. This man is not a braggart. He does what he says.”
“We have all realised that, I think,” Aurungzeb said wryly. “Shahr Baraz?”
The old Merduk shrugged. “He’s the best soldier they’ve ever produced. I believe he and my father would have had much in common.”
“Is there no-one around me who can give me some wisdom in their counsell?” Aurungzeb snapped. “I am surrounded by platitude-mouthing old women! Where is Shahr Johor?”
The occupants of the tent looked at one another. Finally Akran, the chamberlain, ventured: “You—ah—you had him executed, Majesty.”
“What? Oh, yes of course. Well, that was inevitable. He should have died with his men at Armagedir. Blood of God, what happened there? How did he do it? We should have won!”
“We did, at least, destroy those accursed red horsemen, Majesty,” Serrim the eunuch offered.
“Yes, those scarlet fiends. And we slew ten thousand more of his army, did we not? He must be as severely crippled as we are! How does he come to be making threats? What manner of maniac is he? Does he know nothing of the niceties of negotiation?”
The gathering of attendants, advisors and officials said nothing. In the quiet they could hear the crowds of Torunn still cheering, less than half a league away. The noise grated on Aurungzeb’s nerves. Why did they cheer him? He had led so many of their sons and fathers to their deaths, and yet they loved him for it. The Torunnans—there was a collective madness about them. They were a people unhinged. How did one deal with that? When Aurungzeb spoke again the petulance in his voice was like that of a child refused its treat.
“I asked him for safe conduct, the reception of an ambassador—I opened negotiations with the bastard! He must give something in return! Isn’t that right, Batak?”
“Undoubtedly, sire. But remember that he is reputed to be nothing more than a common soldier, a peasant. He has no idea of protocol, or the basic courtesies that exist between monarchs. The conventions of diplomacy are beyond him. He speaks the language of the barrack room only.”
“That may be no bad thing,” Shahr Baraz rumbled. “At least if he gives his word, you can be sure he’ll keep it.”
“Don’t prate to me about the virtues of soldiers,” Aurungzeb growled. “They are overrated.”
Once more there was silence in the tent. The members of the court had never seen the Sultan so unsure, so needful of advice. He had always been one to follow his own counsell, even if it meant flying in the face of facts.
“The war must end,” Mehr Jirah said at last. “Of that there is no question. Thirty thousand of our men died at Armagedir. Our army can fight no more.”
“Then neither can his!”
“I think it can, Sultan. The Torunnans are not striving for conquest, but for survival. They will never give up, especially with this man leading them. Armagedir was the last chance we had to win the war at a stroke, and every one of our soldiers knows it. They also know that this is no longer a holy war. The Ramusians are not infidels, but co-believers in the Prophet—”
“You and your damn preachings have done that,” Aurungzeb raged.
“Would you deny the tenets of your own faith?” Mehr Jirah asked, unintimidated.
“No—no, of course not. All right then. It seems I have no choice. We will remain in negotiation. Mehr Jirah, Batak, Shahr Baraz, the three of you will go to Torunn in the morning and offer to broker a treaty. But no backsliding, mind! God knows I have grovelled enough for one day. Ahara, you were once a Ramusian. What say you? Are they right in this thing? Will this new soldier-king fight us to the end?”
Heria did not look at him. She placed a hand on her swollen abdomen. “You will have a son soon, my lord. I would like him to grow up in peace. Yes, this man will never give in. He . . . Father Albrec told me that he had too much iron in him. But he is a good man at heart. A decent man. He will keep his word, once given.”
“Perhaps,” Aurungzeb grunted. “I must say, I have a perverse hankering to meet him, face to face. Perhaps if we sign a treaty we may pay him a state visit.” And he laughed harshly. “The times are changing, indeed.”
No-one noticed how white Heria’s face had gone. The veil was good for that much at least.
T HE war between the Merduks and the Ramusians had begun so long ago that no-one except the historians was sure in what year the two peoples had first come to blows. But everyone knew when it had ended: in the first year of the reign of King Corfe, the same year the Fantyr dynasty had ceased to be.
And five and a half centuries after the coming of the Blessed Saint who had also been the Prophet, the dual nature of Ramusio was finally recognised and the two great religions he had founded came together and admitted their common origin. All this was written into the Treaty of Armagedir, a document it took soldiers and scholars several weeks to hammer out in a spacious tent which had been erected halfway between the walls of Torunn and the Merduk encampment especially for that purpose.
The Merduks agreed to make the River Searil the border of their new domain. Khedi Anwar, which had once been Ormann Dyke, became the southernmost of their settlements, and Aekir was renamed Aurungabar and designated the Ostrabarian capital. The cathedral of Carcaseon was transformed into the temple of Pir-Sar, and both Merduks and Ramusians were to be allowed to worship there, since it had been made holy
by the founder of both their faiths. Those Aekirian refugees who wished to return to their former home were free to do so without fear of molestation, and the monarchs of Torunna and Ostrabar exchanged ambassadors and set up embassies in each other’s capitals.
But much of that was still in the future. For now, the gates of Torunn were thrown open for the treaty-signing ceremonies, and the war-weary city made ready to receive a visit from the man who had tried to conquer it. For Corfe, it had the surreal quality of a dream. He and Aurungzeb had negotiated through intermediaries, the Sultan considering it beneath his dignity to haggle over the clauses of a treaty in person. Today he would see the face of—perhaps even shake the hand of—the man he had striven so long to destroy. And his mysterious Ramusian Queen, whose contribution to the winning of the war only Corfe and Albrec knew of. Corfe wondered how the history books would view the event. He had come to realise that the facts and history’s perception of them were two very different things.
He stood in his dressing chamber with the summer sunshine flooding in a glorious stream through the tall windows whilst half a dozen valets stood by, disconsolate. They held in their arms a bewildering array of garments which dripped with gems, gold lace and fur trimmings. Corfe had refused them all, and stood in the plain black of a Torunnan infantryman. He wore no crown, but had been persuaded to place on his head an ancient circlet of silver which at one time Fimbrian marshals had worn at the court of the Electors. Albrec, of all people, had dug it up for him out of some dusty palace coffer. It had once belonged to Kaile Ormann himself, which Corfe thought rather fitting.
Trumpets ringing out down by the city gates, heralding the approach of the Sultan’s cavalcade. It seemed to Corfe he had heard more damned trumpets blown in the past few weeks than he had heard in all his life upon battlefields. Torunn had become one vast carnival of late, the people celebrating victory, peace, a new King—one thing after another. And now this, the last of the state occasions which Corfe intended to preside over for a long time.
He’d like to take Formio and Aras out into the hills and go hunting for a while, sleep under the stars again, stare into a campfire and drink rough army wine. The war had been hellish, but it had possessed its moments of sweetness too. Or perhaps he was merely a damned nostalgic fool, destined to become a dissatisfied old man for whom all glory was in the past. Now there was a concept. The very idea made him smile. But as one of the more courageous of the valets stepped forward for the third time with the ermine-trimmed robe the smile twisted into a frown.
“For the last time, no. Now get out of here, all of you.”
“Sire, the Queen insisted—”
“Bugger off.”
“My lord, that is hardly the language a king is expected to use,” Odelia said, sweeping into the room with a pair of maids behind her.
He limped about to meet her eyes. Despite her ministrations, he suspected that his Armagedir wound had marked him permanently. He would be lame for the rest of his life. Well, many had come out of the war with worse souvenirs.
“I always thought that kings could use what language they chose,” he said lightly. Odelia kissed him on the cheek, then drew back to survey his plain attire with mock despair.
“The Sultan will mistake you for a common soldier, if you’re not careful.”
“He made that mistake before. I doubt he will again.”
Odelia laughed, something she had begun to do more often of late. The bright sunlight was not kind to the lines on her face. Whatever magicks she had once applied to maintain her youthful appearance were still being used on the wounded of the army. Her newfound age still perturbed him sometimes. So he took her hand and kissed it.
“Are they at the walls yet?”
“Just entering the barbican. Perched upon a column of elephants, if you please. It looks like a travelling circus is coming to town.”
“Well then, lady, let us go down and greet the clowns.”
Her hand came up and touched his temple briefly. “You have gone grey, Corfe. I never noticed before.”
“That was Armagedir. It made an old man of me.”
“In that case, you will not mind taking an old woman’s arm. Come. We have a dais set out for us hung with lilies, and they’re beginning to wilt in the sun. Its height has been carefully calculated: just high enough to make Aurungzeb look like a supplicant, yet not so high that he can feel insulted.”
“Ah, the subtleties of diplomacy.”
“And of carpentry.”
The crowd gave a massive roar as they appeared side by side and climbed into a carriage which would transport them to the dais just beyond the palace gates. Once there, Odelia had a final, critical look at the arrangements, and they sat down upon the thrones that awaited them. Behind them Mercadius stood, blinking like an owl in the sunlight and looking half asleep on his feet: he was to interpret the proceedings. A dozen Cathedrallers, their armour freshly painted and shining, stood about the sides of the dais like scarlet statuary.
Corfe found himself looking down a wide avenue from which the crowds were held back by two lines of Torunnan regulars. The noise was deafening and the sun hot. Odelia’s hand was cold as he gripped it, however. It felt as insubstantial as straw within his own strong fingers.
Albrec mounted the dais, his face dark with some unknown worry. He bowed. “Your pardon, Majesties. I would count it an honour if you allowed me to be present at this time. I will stay out of the way.”
Odelia looked as though she was about to refuse, but Corfe waved him closer. “By all means, Father. After all, you’re better acquainted with the Merduk Sultan than we are.” Why did the little monk look so troubled? He was wiping sweat off his face with one sleeve.
“Albrec, are you all right?” Corfe asked him quietly.
“Corfe, I must—”
And here the damnable trumpets began sounding out again. A swaying line of palanquin-bearing elephants approached, painted and draped and bejewelled until they seemed like beasts out of some gaudy legend. Atop the lead animal, which had been painted white, Corfe could make out the broad, turbaned shape of the man who must be Aurungzeb, and beside him under the tasselled canopy the slighter shadow of his Queen.
The play-acting part of it was scheduled to last no more than a few minutes. In the audience hall of the palace two copies of the treaty waited to be signed—that was the real business of the day. Then there would be a banquet, and some entertainments or other which Odelia had dreamt up, and it would be done. Aurungzeb would not be staying in Torunn overnight, treaty or no treaty.
Formio and Aras appeared at the foot of the dais. Corfe had thought it only fair that they be here for this moment. The two had become fast friends despite the odds. The Aras Corfe knew now was a long way from the pompous young man he had first encountered at Staed. What was it Andruw had said? All piss and vinegar—yes, that was it. And Corfe smiled. I hope you can see this, Andruw. You made it happen, you and those damned tribesmen.
So many ghosts.
The lead elephant halted, and then went to its knees as smoothly as a well-trained lap-dog. Silk-clad attendants appeared and helped the Sultan and his Queen out of the high palanquin. A knot of people, as bright as silk butterflies, fussed around the couple. Corfe looked at Odelia. She nodded, and they both rose to their feet to greet their guests.
The Sultan was a tall man, topping Corfe by half a head. The fine breadth of his shoulders was marred somewhat by the paunch that had begun to develop under the sash which belted his middle. He had a huge beard, as broad as a besom, and his snow-white turban was set with a ruby brooch. The eyes under the turban’s brim were alight with intelligence and irritation. Clearly, he did not like the fact that, thanks to the dais, Corfe and Odelia were looking down on him.
Of Aurungzeb’s Queen, Corfe could make out little, except that she was heavily pregnant. She was clad in blue silk, the colour of which Corfe immediately liked. Her face above the veil had been garishly painted, the eye-brows drawn out wit
h stibium, kohl smeared across the lids. She did not look up at the dais, but kept her gaze fixed resolutely on the ground. Directly behind her stood an old Merduk with a formidable face and direct glance. He looked like an over-protective father.
The Sultan’s chamberlain had appeared at one side to announce his master’s appearance, but Aurungzeb did not wait for the diplomatic niceties to begin. Instead he clambered up on to the dais itself, which caused Corfe’s Cathedraller bodyguard to half draw their swords. Corfe held up a hand, and they relaxed.
The Sultan loomed over him. “So you are the man I have been fighting,” he said, his Normannic surprisingly good.
“I am the man.”
They stared at one another in frank, mutual curiosity. Finally Aurungzeb grinned. “I thought you would be taller.”
They both laughed, and incredibly Corfe found himself liking the man.
“I see you have your mad little priest here as well—except that he is not mad, of course. Brother Albrec, you have turned our world upside-down. I hope you are pleased with yourself.”
Albrec bowed wordlessly. The Sultan nodded to Odelia. “Lady, I hope you are good . . . well. Yes, that is the word.” He took Odelia’s hand and kissed it, then scrutinized the nearest Cathedraller, who was watching him warily.
“I thought we had killed them all,” he said affably.
Corfe frowned. “Not all of them.”
“You must be running short of Ferinai armour for them. I can perhaps send you a few hundred sets.”
“There is no need,” Odelia said smoothly. “We captured several hundred more at Armagedir.”
It was the Sultan’s turn to frown. But not for long. “My manners have deserted me. Let me introduce Queen Ahara. Shahr Baraz, help her up here. That’s it.”
The old, severe-looking Merduk helped the Merduk Queen up on the dais. Around the little tableau of figures, the crowds had gone quiet and were watching events unfold as if it were some passion play laid on for their entertainment.
