Sarazin did not answer. Farfalla had already betrayed herself to him in an earlier meeting when she had spoken of his foot jammed beneath her rib, of his birth, his first words, his first step, the agony of their parting when he was aged but four. Did she think he had forgotten already? She loved him. Wanted him. Needed him. Valued him above almost anything in the world. Surely he could secure her indulgence. Seeking to do that, he said:
'I believe I can have whatever I want. I can be whatever I want to be. I can win whatever I want to win. All I need is just a little help to tap my true potential.'
'I give up!' said Farfalla. You're as senseless as a teenager. It's Lord Regan's fault. The old fool indulged you in a game of princes. But you're not a prince. You're a farrier's bastard, that's all.'
She hoped to educate through shock where reason had failed. Her vehement outburst shocked herself. But made little impact on Sarazin, who proved as much by saying:
You were consecrated as one of the Favoured Blood. In sacred ceremony, you joined your blood to that of the lineage of the rightful rulers of Argan. As all legend knows-'
'Legend! Legend!' said Farfalla. 'Do you want to be a legend-hero? Very well! Ride forth, my son, and kill yourself a dragon. Or dare the lands beyond Drangsturm and make a name for yourself as explorer. Or win yourself a princess, and make yourself lord of some kingdom through her inheritance.'
Thus raged Farfalla. Sarazin knew she was being sarcastic, but, even so, once he had escaped from her wrath he began considering her suggestions in earnest. Neither dragons nor Drangsturm appealed, but the idea of winning a princess recommended itself to his imagination.
The next day, Lod found Sarazin deep in research amidst heaps of books, scrolls, papers and maps. What are you doing?' said Lod.
'Researching my marriage to a princess,' answered Sarazin. 'Really! Have you found any candidates?'
'One or two. Things may have changed, but some of these reports claim that the kings of both Dybra and Chorst have daughters as yet unmarried. Slerma of Sung is also unmarried. Unfortunately, a traveller's tale alleges that she's slightly overweight. I must say I don't like fat.'
Then you must see my sister Amantha,' said Lod, whose appetite for devilment was unconstrained by any thought of the probable consequences of such. 'She's thin as an eel. And, I'm sure, every bit as slippery when wet.' He winked.
'I don't think you quite understand,' said Sarazin. 'I want a princess who comes with a kingdom. Slerma of Sung, for instance. She sounds nearly ideal. Her father rules from a mighty mountain city rich with the wealth of a thousand mines. Whereas Chenameg – well, it's a nice place, but Tarkal inherits, doesn't he?' There was a pause. Then Lod said: Tarkal is not immortal.' Who… who is next in the line of succession?'
'Amantha, of course. Tarkal was the firstborn. Then there was Amantha. Then me. The succession is from the oldest to youngest, regardless of sex.' 'But Tarkal is young,' insisted Sarazin. 'And, as I said, he is not immortal.' They eyed each other in silence. Then:
'Tell me then,' said Sarazin, choosing his words very, very carefully, 'what exactly do you want for yourself?'
'To live in my homeland, to start with. Only fear of my life sent me running to Selzirk. Tarkal thrice tried to kill me, I'm sure of it. He's three parts mad, I've seen it clear. But my father refuses to believe it.'
'This is all… very interesting,' said Sarazin. 'I'll have to think carefully about this.'
Think quickly,' said Lod. 'For Tarkal and Amantha will both be here some ten days hence. They come as part of an embassy, and will lodge within the walls of your mother's castle. That will be your best chance, perhaps your only chance, if you seek opportunity for romance. Or for… for other things.'
Ten days! Yes, ten days for Sarazin to think things through. What did he have to lose? His life! But then, of course, he had a kingdom to win.
CHAPTER EIGHT Sing me a song of love, my dear. Once more before I perish – Of love, the word that all men know, Of nuzzling lips, of golls which gloat, Of womanheat ready and waiting. Sing me a song, and make it of love: For my money for whores is exhausted. -Saba Yavendar, 'Lust Song'.
Fortune had indulged her with a royal name. She was Amantha of Chenameg, and she came to Selzirk of the Harvest Plains with the embassy which brought her brother Tarkal to the city. At an official reception, she met with Sean Kelebes Sarazin, a young man known to his mother as Sarazin Sky. He would, in the fulness of time, bear the name Watashi – which means, among other things, death.
They met beneath a sky of cerulean blue, when the world was at peace, for both had been born into the final years of the Golden Age. Then, the Swarms were kept safely south of Drangsturm, allowing the lands of Argan North to flourish in peace and prosperity. Sean Sarazin was then twenty-two years old. The fair lady Amantha was the same age, and carried herself with all the grace befitting a princess of the Chenameg Kingdom.
Sarazin fell in love with Amantha immediately. Just as he had expected to. Which was fortunate, since it would scarcely have been proper for him to pursue his princess unless he loved her. It is certain that love rules Sarazin's heart, not lust, for his princess was not made to excite the flesh. She was tall. She was thin. She was pallid. She had buck teeth. Therefore why did he adore her?
Because she moved with the mystic grace immanent in the flesh of those of the Favoured Blood. Because she was of a line of kings, and therefore possessed a share of divinity. She was the woman of his dreams.
On introduction, he had no immediate chance to profess his love, for three hundred others were waiting to kiss her hand. Afterwards, however, they dined alfresco, choosing food at liberty from the buffet spread beneath a marquee on the banks of the Velvet River at a spot some half a league east of Selzirk, and Sarazin shortly seized his chance to accost her. 'Amantha,' he said. 'I know my name' she said tartly.
It was not an auspicious beginning. Already she was turning away from him.
'But you don't know mine,' he said. 'It's Sean. Sean Sarazin.'
'Oh yes, I've heard of you,' said Amantha. 'You're the washerwoman's bastard.'
'No, no,' said Sarazin, desperately. You're confusing me with someone else. That's Benthorn you're thinking of. Benthorn, my half-brother. I'm Farfalla's son.'
He was close enough to breathe the perfume from the silken sachet hanging at her neck.
'I was not mistaken, then,' said Amantha. You're the son of a farrier.'
'The kingmaker's son! Farfalla's son! And – and I love you!' You what!?' she said, half gasping, half laughing. 'I love you!'
'How can you?' she said. 'I am a princess and you a peasant.' 'I must die unless I can have you,' said Sarazin. 'Die, then,' she said, indifferent to his fate. He seized her hand in his. 'Fair lady,' he said, 'I pray, hear me out.' 'Oh, what style it has!' said Amantha.
She pursed her lips for a kiss, raised Sarazin's hand to her lips – then bit it. Hard. Sarazin jerked his hand away. And Amantha, laughing, flirted away into the midst of a gaggle of hard-drinking cavalry officers.
She had a nice grasp of the political realities. While the Harvest Plains were more powerful than Chenameg,
Sarazin commanded none of that power in his own right, and never would. His prospects were zero.
A little later, Lod of Chenameg caught up with Sarazin, and asked how Sarazin had made out. 'Amantha,' said Sarazin, 'bit me.'
'Oh, doubtless she was in one of her little moods,' said Lod.
Tell me about these little moods,' said Sarazin. 'How long do they last for?' 'A few days,' said Lod. 'How many is a few?' 'Any number less than twenty.'
'So she sulks, then,' said Sarazin. 'In a very professional way, by the sound of it. Has anyone tried using a whip on her?'
'Sarazin, my man!' cried Lod. What a delicious thought! You're a genius. But, alas – the world so seldom appreciates true talent. Indeed, I suspect your genius in action might get us both arrested. Come, there's no joy for us here. Let's be away.'
So the pair saddled up, quit the riverside buffet and set off for Selzirk. 'How did you find Tarkal?' said Sarazin.
Tarkal's health was of course a matter of intense interest, since only his death would let Amantha ascend the throne of Chenameg.
'Tarkal I found fiery,' said Lod. 'A dragon in his eye. Methinks my head was gripped in the jaws of that dragon.' 'Dragonising apart, how did he treat you?'
