screamed in a blood-heat frenzy. And every voice that was raised was calling for war.
Hearst remembered, vividly, the aftermath of the battle that was rousing such enthusiasm amongst the banquet guests. He recalled the wounded, the crush injuries, the amputations, shocked faces, a brave smile from a mask of blood and bone, the last words of a dying man. He felt a sudden surge of nausea, and stumbled from the hall, leaving by an exit reserved for the most important people.
Outside, he vomited into a capacious vase, bringing up every bit of the noxious mixture which had burdened his stomach. Then he returned.
'Are you sick?' said Farfalla, seeing his pallor.
'I'm fighting fit,' said Hearst, draining his goblet. The wine made him feel better. 'Give me more wine.'
'Of course,' said Farfalla. 'There's going to be another song now.'
Hearst drank deeply. Wine warm as the sun: a healing heat in his belly. A minstrel stood and began to tell of the struggle for control of Androlmarphos. Hearst remembered. Wild rocks in the streets. A man trapped against a wall then mashed. Swords in the sun. A scream hoisted on the point of a spear.
He recharged his cup. He drank.
The minstrel told of the sea battle. And Hearst remembered. Timbers heaved up in the surge of the sea's swell. The grey whales lofted up from the waters: huge humps death-heavy. They drove forward. Rend ing timbers: a mast falling: a man jumping to the drowning sea.
As he drank, wine favoured him with its intimate warmth. Song followed wine; wine followed song. Then a new minstrel rose, and called for silence:
Now silence, silence, for my song Is more than worth the hearing: A hero's deeds, a hero's tale The subject of its praising.
And the minstrel began his version of the legend of how the Rovac warrior Morgan Hearst killed the dragon Zenphos in the lair on the mountain of Maf. Hearst remembered hearing that legend in Skua, the squalid port on the coast of Trest that bore the same name as Ohio's fine ship. Ohio! Dead now, killed by a fall from a horse, killed by Morgan Hearst, killed by Farfalla's treachery, by a lie about an army from the Rice Empire.
Hearst got to his feet. Looked around. Mouths opened, closed. Blood within mouths. Shadows within eyes. Bright-bone teeth glistening with laughter.
Hearst remembered the vision he had seen at Skua: an ocean of fire a thousand years wide. He remembered another vision: Gorn's head, blood on Gorn's lips, death in the sockets of his eyes. At Skua, he had run amok, sword slicing at any and every, his voice raging to madness.
'What are you standing for?' said Farfalla. 'Sit down.' Hearst turned, stared at her. Death was on her hands. And there must be a death to pay for a death. He drew his sword.
He remembered what happened at Larbreth. The woman Ethlite! He had taken her head: his sword slicing away the voice which had dared to speak to Elkor Alish as if to a slave. Now, here was another woman: and this one had much more to answer for.
'What do you want?' said Farfalla. She was afraid.
'What do you think I want?' said Hearst.
He looked out over the Hall of Wine. Everyone was watching him. Reckless, he roared: 'What do you think I want?'
And the answer came back: 'Watashi! Wa – wa – watashi!'
Watashi. Blood. Fear. Death.
They thought he meant to kill Farfalla. And more: they wanted it. They were ready for it. In Morgan Hearst, they saw the promise of power, glory, wealth, an empire that would control all of Argan. They knew it would demand killing: they were ready for the slaughter to begin. Now.
Hearst raked his sword over the table, scattering dishes, plates, bowls, cups, bottles. He threw back his head and screamed. The crowd responded with another roar: 'Wa – wa – Watashi! Wa – wa – Watashi!'
They were as drunk as he was. And as mad. Whatever he commanded, they would do. His word would be law. They were ready to worship him. Yet what was he? Who and what was Morgan Hearst? He was a man who had been the death of those who followed him most faithfully. Who had been fooled by a woman's lies. Who had sickened of slaughter, yet, when tempted, was ready to accept command of an empire which lusted for war and conquest.
Morgan Hearst turned on his heel and stumbled from the room. Farfalla sat at the table, shock on her face, clearly realising how close she had come to losing her head. Blackwood and Miphon rose and followed Hearst at a discreet distance, knowing there was no telling what he might do when he was drunk like this.
Farfalla sat alone in the Hall of Wine, isolated 431 amongst her people. A drunken cavalry officer stood on a table to propose a toast to Morgan Hearst; the toast was taken up with a roar of approval. Since power is based on consent, Hearst now had absolute power: these people would do whatever he said. Farfalla, kingmaker of the Harvest Plains, was ruler now in name only.
This was what she had wanted: to place Morgan Hearst on the throne of the Harvest Plains. To free herself from the burdens of power. What she had not wanted, and had not anticipated, was the enthusiasm she saw in the hall, where people she had once thought rational now raised their voices in an uproar like ghouls baying for blood. She knew the name of this madness: war fever.
She wondered what she had done.
Hearst found his way to the battlements of the original wizard castle round which Selzirk had been built. At first he lurched and staggered a little, but soon his gait steadied to the regular rhythm that would defeat league after league on a long march.
Marching along, he remembered, with a terrible drink-sodden nostalgia, the wars of his youth. He sang, tunelessly, drunken snatches of songs he had learnt by campfires on foreign shores, mountains, tundras. Those early days had been the best: he had been just another soldier in the armies of Rovac, then, with no responsibility except to listen and obey.
He remembered, in particular, the Cold West. Yes! He remembered a battlefield by sunlight, rank upon rank of gleaming armour and glittering weapons. A sudden surge of pride and ego, rising to adrenalin heights. Battle-drums booming, a battle-chant roaring:
Who are we? We are the Rovac!
What do we do? We kill! We kill! We kill! We kill!
Kill! Yes. That was the chant. Those were the days. Battles in the shadow of the Far Wall. The struggle for control of the pass commanding the Valley of Insects. The sack of the Temple of the Thousand Snowflowers. Grand simplicities.
And what now? Questions and confusions. And what was the source of those questions, those confusions? Hearst knew. In the beginning was a lie. After he had crawled down from the mountain of Maf, he had allowed people to believe he had killed the dragon; he had boasted himself to a hero, and all the problems had started.
Alish had known him to be a liar: and their friendship had begun to fail. So what was he to do?
There was only one way out. The trouble had begun with a lie. The trouble had begun when he had pretended to be a hero. Well then, the simple answer was to become a hero. A real hero. Then there would be no lie.
But- Muddled with drink, he remembered, in a blurred, half-hearted way, having doubts about the very ethos of heroism itself. Well, no doubt those doubts were part of the package that went with being a coward. He tried to kick himself for his cowardice, and, as a consequence, fell over.
'Doubt is for women,' muttered Hearst, hauling himself to his feet. 'A hero knows!'
The battlements stretched clear and empty ahead to a tower. The tower of the order of Ebber.
Hearst drew his sword.
He was drunk, but he drew with the grace of a dancer. The blade leapt clean and clear from the scabbard, slicing into the sunlight.
That was fast.
