“Bellamus of Safinim,” he said, savouring the words. “I thought you might survive. The universe is a perverse place.” This was Earl Seaton: father of Queen Aramilla and thus uniquely elevated among King Osbert’s courtiers. The earl was tall and extremely lean, with a narrow face and a slightly effeminate stance, as though his joints moved more freely than those of most men. His clothes were black, his eyes were black, his hair was jet-black and great clusters of gold had congealed about his extremities.
Bellamus stopped before the earl. “A feat in itself,” he said. “Not many return from the Black Kingdom.”
“Which still stands,” observed Earl Seaton. “Though I’m sure you did your best.”
Bellamus laughed. “I look forward to seeing you lead our next campaign, my lord.”
“I cannot deny I feel more at home here in the south, Bellamus. And what have we here?” The earl hauled a gold-weighted hand over Bellamus’s shoulder and tapped the handle of the great war-blade that hung there.
“A trump card,” said Bellamus. “His Majesty is through there?” Bellamus pointed to a door at the back of the hall, beside which two royal guards waited.
“He certainly is,” said Earl Seaton. “His mood is fickle at present, Bellamus; watch your head as you leave.” Bellamus walked past the earl, staring fixedly at the door to avoid the gazes of the other courtiers, who watched him pass in silence. Standing a little way beyond the noble cluster was Queen Aramilla, who appraised him coldly as he approached. He caught her eye and winked, a gesture invisible to the courtiers at his back. She did not respond, but as he passed she turned to watch him go.
“I did what I could,” she murmured at his back.
Then he was past, lifting the latch of the door and slipping into the dark beyond. This room was much smaller, with the floor covered in deerskins and a hearth set into the wall on Bellamus’s left. Between this and a single window, located high on the other side of the room, illumination was provided. The air quivered with the soft tones of an unseen harpist. Directly opposite Bellamus was a platform, on either side of which stood a retainer. One of them was uncommonly tall; so tall that Bellamus blinked and stared at his shadowed form for a moment. It could not possibly be a Sutherner.
On the platform was a throne of oak, ornately carved and stained like dried blood. A plump bishop, purple of face and robe, was stooped next to the throne, and on the throne sat King Osbert.
The king was fat and bearded (which explained the hirsute state of his courtiers). His nose was broad and flattened, his cheeks so pink as to be almost cherubic, and he stared at Bellamus from beneath a pair of spectacular eyebrows: black, and ending in a mighty upward flourish. They gave him the appearance of an owl and Bellamus often privately considered that the king’s eyebrows did more to rule the kingdom than the rest of him combined. Though it had been decades since he had swung a sword in anger, King Osbert retained many of the affectations of a warrior. Bellamus had never seen him without the gilt-circleted helmet he wore on his head, and against his throne was propped a polished, unsheathed sword. A gold chain rested upon his shoulders and he wore a robe of dark shaggy bear-fur, which must have been feverish in the warm room.
Bellamus ignored the retainers on either side and knelt before King Osbert, who was now leaning back in his throne, eyes closed. “Your Majesty,” he said.
“A new one,” the king rumbled, voice so deep as to be almost ludicrous. The harp paused briefly and then began a fresh tune. “This is wonderful,” he said with a sigh, eyes still closed.
“This music, Your Majesty?” enquired the bishop, sympathetically.
“I know it’s music,” snapped the king. Bellamus grinned down at the floor. “Wonderful,” repeated the king. He hummed lightly with the harp for a few moments, plucking imperceptible strings with a thumb and forefinger. “We should send harpists out onto the streets: I should say that’ll brighten the city a bit. My dear people can forget the floods, the storms, and that menace to the north as long as they have good music. I have always believed in its restorative power.” Bellamus wondered how many people’s homes would be restored by the sound of the harps. The king kept ignoring him and kept talking, his voice melodic, as though he were telling a story. “It is my great ambition to some day rule a country in which harpists outnumber swordsmen.”
“Amen, Majesty,” said the bishop.
“Where harpists outnumber swordsmen. A gift from Heaven,” said the king. Then he opened his eyes, resting them on Bellamus. “Bellamus of Safinim,” he said, leaning forward and licking his lips as though the upstart was a particularly plump mouse that he intended to devour. He cocked his head a little and gave a smile of indulgent benevolence. “Has God granted the Anakim the gift of music?”
“Of a kind, Majesty,” said Bellamus, raising his head a little. “They sing, they chant and they drum. They play with wind as well, using flutes and trumpets of bone; but they have no harps.”
“No harps? I am ever astonished by their crudity.” He
